Chapter 29
TWENTY-NINE
SYLVAN
Sweat pools between my shoulder blades as I catch my breath, tracking the puck. The crowd is a mix of noise; East York is close enough; there’s probably about as many Dragon fans in here as there are Bears.
I’m panting, my heart racing, and I’m not out on the ice yet.
But I’m up next.
Faust has possession, collecting the puck behind the net.
The way he moves, the set of his jaw, even with his helmet, I can tell he’s on edge. He wants this as much as I do; more, actually. He won’t be here next year, I know that much, no matter what he says about wanting to finish his degree.
Bullshit.
The buzz, the money, the hype, the life… Even Saint Darling can’t resist that. But he wants to earn that C on his jersey tonight and he wants to skate off the ice to angry Bears fans and hysterical Dragons when the last buzzer sounds.
Faust carries it up, Coach wants a line change, and the moment I hop on the ice in the rush, Faust targets me.
I race up the boards, Faust’s diagonal pass cuts through from the left, slipping past an angry Bear—fucker—and when our eyes connect for half a second, I know I’m going to get it in the net. But dead ahead, right behind the Bear’s goal, I see a woman.
A group of them, all familiar.
On their feet.
Cheering.
But one is turned, and while I’m smart enough to fucking focus, while usually the background is all an eraser-blur, I see her.
Neve fucking Devine.
Black Drayton’s jersey, high-fiving a girl behind her. Neve’s long blond hair is swept forward over one shoulder.
And I read the name on her jersey in white collegiate letters. The red of our own jerseys is always a toss-up for me when it comes to my vision. Sometimes I catch it, sometimes I don’t.
But white? That’s easy.
Darling.
The noise of the Dragon fans screaming at the top of their lungs for us, like I’ve already got this, is nothing but buzz I can’t feel. Muted. Might as well be silent.
What’s loud is her.
What’s loud costs me the fucking goal.
Jealousy like I’ve never felt surges up my spine, into my brain.
She’s poisoned me.
I release a split second too late, and a Bears defenseman slams it back up the ice.
The jeers match the screams of excitement from the Bears fans, and I stop short near the goal line, pivoting hard, glad Faust is off the ice or I might hit him myself.
My back is to Neve now which helps me focus, but only just.
The fact she threw me off is sickening. Nothing bothers me this much.
If we lose this game because of some girl I’m infatuated with, that’s an embarrassment I can’t handle.
I don’t have time to think about it when the Bears left D man skates right into my path, my forward momentum sending us crashing into the fucking boards.
I drop my stick and slam my gloved fist into his chest, the scent of sweat filling my nose, and it’s not just my own.
Smacks against the plexiglass thump behind me, frantic and angry, but I don’t give a fuck. The Bear—Rodger—tries to skate off, but I grab his jersey and haul him back.
You’re not going any-fucking-where.
This time, he releases his stick too, and his eyes lock onto mine as I hit him again, then he throws himself fully at me, like he can collapse me with his bodyweight.
Not a chance.
I rip his helmet off, my spine to the boards, then I’m raining blows on his head, his brown hair a mess of sweat and heat.
The crowd is losing it and so am I.
Players from both sides pile up around us, some helping me, some hurting. I feel blows along my core, my ribs, but a strong grip jerks me away from the madness and when I look up, angry I have to stop, it’s Faust’s dark eyes that mine are locked onto.