19. CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I blink, convinced my eyes are playing tricks, but even when I rub them, the vision before stays the same.
Pem.
My mate.
Dressed in a Goodfellows jersey.
He stumbles on his skates, dropping to his knees while he stares at me with what I can only assume is the same horror-struck expression.
It’s the only thing keeping me upright at the moment.
The Goodfellows coach glances from me to Pem then back to me before hanging his head and groaning.
“Your mate is the other team’s coach?!”
Both Pem and I flinch at the fury lacing the man’s words, and Kening steps forward to block me from view.
“That’s none of our business,” the K?ldrisi rumbles in a monotone voice.
On the one hand, he’s absolutely right—it’s no one’s business—on the other, this looks bad.
Very bad.
The only consolation is that neither Pem nor I knew. It’s purely coincidental, despite what my father might say.
Before I can say anything, the ref blows his whistle, and the Goodfellows coach holds out his hand to shake mine, signaling the start of the game.
I keep my face blank when his palm encloses over my smaller one, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Pem stand up.
It takes all my control not to skate over to him. Instead, I turn and go back to the area designated for me and any team members sitting out.
My Puca stares after me, but his coach slams him so hard in the shoulder, I think he might drop to the ground again.
Pain skitters across his features, mirrored in mine at knowing his distress—I can feel it through our bond, washing over me in sickening waves.
I curl my fingers into tight fists until my nails dig into my palms, anchoring me in place so that I remember who I am and who he is in this moment.
We’re not mates right now.
We’re rivals.
The ref blows his whistle once more, this time holding the puck up above his head. The K?ldrisi towers over Pem as they wait for the drop.
Kening wins the faceoff, flicking the puck back to our defense. My players spring into motion, blades cutting across the ice in smooth, practiced strides.
The Goodfellows push forward, their skaters surging across the surface of the frozen lake with a relentless hunger toward my team.
Their forecheck is relentless, two players pressing high, forcing our defense into immediate decisions.
Kening drops back, calling for support. Our blueliners snap into position like clockwork, and relief courses through me to see how streamline they are.
“Stay tight!” I shout, tracking their movement.
Our winger, a nimble but hulking Mangadhai, sweeps in low to offer an outlet. The puck moves fast, zipping about as my guys shift their formation.
A Goodfellows defenseman steps up hard at the invisible blue line, trying to trap us before we enter their zone.
But our winger is quick—faster than he looks given his size—and he pulls the puck wide, cutting in just as our centerman crosses behind him for a perfect drop pass. It’s seamless, and a grin tugs at my lips.
Until I look at Pem.
His gaze tracks over my face, and he’s not paying any attention to the game. To the side, I can see his coach growing more and more irate.
Play! I mouth, hoping he can figure out what I’m trying to tell him.
There’s a lot we have to discuss after the game, but right now, we each have our role to play—and he’s floundering on the ice.
Pem finally spins just as my centerman barrels through the slot, snapping a shot on net. The Goodfellows’ goalie drops low in anticipation.
The puck ricochets off his pads, kicking back into play, and the rebound battle that ensues is vicious.
Bodies slam against one another, and the crack of sticks against the frozen lake rings out like gunfire into the frigid air.
My guys fight for it as the Goodfellows’ defense tightens, pinning us in the corner. For a moment, the puck gets lost in the scrum of bodies.
Then Kening—unstoppable force that he is—uses his sheer size to muscle through. He hooks his stick around the puck, dragging it free before flicking a no-look pass to our waiting winger.
The Mangadhai feints left before ripping a shot toward the net. I hold my breath as the other team’s goalie glove snaps up like a steel trap, snatching the puck out of midair.
I groan as the Goodfellows’ side erupts with cheers, not that I begrudge them since it was such a good save.
Because despite the puck not going in, it’s the kind of shot we want—high danger, controlled, forcing their goalie to work.
We’ll break him down eventually.
Pem pops back into view when the ref resets for the next faceoff. Our gazes catch, his a bottomless sea of amber and anguish.
Again, I shake my head. We both have to focus. We can drown in our regrets later, but right now, we have jobs to do.
Kening squats down just as the ref drops the puck. To my surprise—and very secret delight—Pem bursts forward.
He wins the faceoff, moving with the familiar efficiency I saw when we played this past week, and my heart swells to see him actually playing.
I track his movement, as well as noting how the forwards stagger their rush. One drives deep, another curling high with the third trailing slightly behind.
Our blueliners close the gap quickly, cutting off the passing lanes, forcing them to the outside. One of their wingers, jukes left, then right, trying to shake free.
Kening skates over as the winger passes the puck to Pem. He flicks it toward the goal, but our man blocks the shot.
The whistle blows. I exhale as the players start to play again, but confusion rumbles through me the longer I watch.
Something’s wrong—I just can’t put my finger on it—and then I figure it out. The Goodfellows’ defense isn’t just playing smart…
They’re playing like me.
It’s subtle, but I would recognize my plays anywhere as their defenseman forces our forward to turn his back to the play.
A second later, another Goodfellow pinches in with the perfect timing to strip the puck clean, and my stomach tightens.
The puck swings up ice, and I track Pem’s movements. He pivots hard at the invisible blue line, his edgework flawless.
My Puca hesitates. It’s a split second of delay that lures our defense into overcommitting, and then Pem threads a perfect no-look pass through a nearly nonexistent gap.
I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the Goodfellows’ winger curls in, cutting just inside the faceoff dot, shielding the puck exactly the way I did when playing with Pem.
Our defense scrambles to recover, but it’s too late. The pass is already gone, redirected with surgical precision until it’s in the back of our net.
Goal.
Point for the Goodfellows.
The crowd on the other side of the lake roars as my heart plummets to my feet, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
My vision goes spotty as I rub at my chest. When I look up, Pem’s staring at me, but I turn my back on him, not wanting to believe what I already know.
Kening skates over, calling for time. “What’s wrong Iseol?”
“They’re using our plays— my plays.”
He purses his lips. “How did they get our moves?”
“I—it’s my fault. I played hockey with Pem, but…”
“But?”
“But he had no clue who I was. Neither of us knew until this game.”
The K?ldrisi narrows his eyes. “I see. Well, we’re just going to have to adapt. Your plays are better than your cousin’s but his won us the EMHL Championship. I’ll tell the boys to change our moves.”
“I trust you, Kening. Right now, the Goodfellows expect us to play fast, so try slowing it down. Force them into their own momentum, let them overcommit, and then strike.”
“You got it, Coach.”
He raises a hand and the team huddles up as he whispers our new plan. The guys nod, determination lighting their faces, and I hope it’s enough.
The whistle blows for the millionth time, and the puck drops again. We win the faceoff, and Kening zooms down the ice.
By changing our rhythm, it pulls the Goodfellows out of their comfort zone, which might be enough to help us recover the game.
Kening throws a devastating check against Pem, sending him sprawling into a nearby snowbank. A tiny gasp escapes my lips when I see him go flying.
But my mate’s back on the ice in seconds, and my shoulders drop in relief to know that he’s ok. But that tension returns with a vengeance when Pem skates toward the K?ldrisi.
Kening braces, ready to meet Pem head-on, but my mate doesn’t engage—not in the way I expect.
Instead, he shifts his weight at the last second, cutting around Kening with a sharp edge turn that kicks up a spray of ice.
He’s fast.
Too fast.
My breath catches as Pem charges into the zone, weaving through our defense like he’s threading a needle.
The Goodfellows adjust seamlessly, their spacing perfect, creating a lane just wide enough for Pem to exploit.
He dangles the puck, baiting our defense, waiting until our blueliner lunges, and then he’s gone. In a lightning-fast pivot and a drop of his shoulder, Pem slips between them, his body angling toward the net.
Our goalie squares up, ready, but Pem isn’t rushing the shot—no, he’s setting it up. He feints once, dragging the puck on his backhand before flipping it just under the crossbar.
The net ripples, and the whistle blows as the other team erupts in celebration. My stomach twists as Pem’s teammates swarm him, ruffling his hair, clapping his back.
Because, once again, he used my move.
Pem never denied being a trickster…
But did he trick me?