Chapter 10
The ref drops the puck between Dean and the Gargoyles’ player. Dean wins the draw, dishing the puck back to Elias.
We take off, flying across the ice and breaking into the zone. Malik, number fifty-five, skates the puck in, dishing it to me as I shift along the right wing and he stays by the blue line.
I slide it up to Griffin on the other end of the blue line, who wraps it back around the other way.
Dean catches the puck, drags to the side, finds an opening for a shot, and fires. It pings off the post, the almost goal ringing out.
We’re down by one right now because they got lucky in the first period. The puck took a weird bounce, and unfortunately, they turned that mishap into a point on the board.
But we’ll come back—I’m sure of it.
The Legends hockey team is the best in the league, even if we lost the championship last year to the Knights by one point. That’s not happening again. We’re going to take it this year.
The Gargoyles gain possession off the rebound, and the game shifts in the other direction.
Number eighty-one on their team has the puck and tries to cut around me, but I use my stick and try to steal the puck off him. He moves his skate intentionally into my stick, and suddenly, his legs are flying out from under him before he crashes to the ice.
Malik takes the puck, and the ref blows the whistle, taking everyone by surprise.
No fucking way they’re calling that a tripping penalty!
The ref points at me, and I throw my arms up.
“You’ve got to be kidding! He literally tripped himself! Call this bitch ass for embellishment then!”
The ref ignores me, gesturing with his hand for me to go to the box, and I groan but listen, heading that way.
“Jesus, fuck!” I curse, smacking my stick into the ice.
“Watch where you’re putting that thing.” Eighty-One laughs.
“Oh, go fuck yourself. Flop of the century.” I step into the penalty box, the attendant shutting it behind me.
The Gargoyles are going on a two-minute power play while we try to kill the penalty without them scoring, down a man.
“Fuck!” I curse again, resting my stick against the glass before grabbing a water bottle and taking a drink.
Pulling my jersey forward, I spray some down the front of it and along the neck line, letting the cold water wash over me and help cool me off a bit.
“It was kind of a shit call.” The attendant smiles, and I laugh, offering him knuckles.
“Fucking right? Could have been a demonstration of embellishment,” I scoff, watching our guys keep the Gargoyles at bay. “Ridiculous.”
“You’ve got one minute,” he tells me, and I grab my stick, getting ready to head back out.
We clear the zone and change out, the next group coming on with fresh legs. Neither us nor them can fully take control of the puck—embarrassing on their part since they have a man advantage right now.
We manage to get another change, my line coming back out. It’s out of order, but I’m almost out of the box so Coach wants me to hop right into play.
“Ten seconds.”
We both stand up. He grabs the door, readying to open it, and I pump my shoulders up a couple of times, hyping myself up.
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One.”
He opens the door, and I fly out.
“Legends back at full strength,” the announcer calls.
They fire at our goalie, but Finny blocks it, and Malik gets the rebound.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Knowing he’ll get it to me, I take off toward our offensive zone, no defenders between me and their goalie. Malik sends the puck flying, and it lands perfectly, gliding across the ice in line with my stick.
Dribbling it a few times, I pull left, and the goalie skates out, in ready position, his stick angled across his body. He’s a short goalie, which means his weak spots are different from most of the big guys we go against.
The corners are harder for him to defend, where the five-hole is much easier for him to block since he’s lower to the ground.
Feeling confident, I bend my wrist. Without showing I’m about to fire, I push it through, fast and hard. It soars in the air, and the goalie makes his move, pushing up to close off the gap between his shoulder and the crossbar.
But it’s too late.
The puck is already past him, flying into the back of the net.
“Let’s go!” I shout, dropping down to my go-to celly—the bow and arrow––where you draw a make-believe bow, and fire an arrow into the sky. I fire away and pop back up right as the rest of the guys reach me, singing their cheers.
Our arena erupts, screaming along with us as we tie the game up.
I lead our group to the bench as the announcer shouts into the mic, announcing our goal. We bump gloves with our teammates before heading back to center ice to set up. We still feel fresh, so Coach lets us stay on.
But after about forty-five seconds, we change out with other players, taking a brief break on the bench. I ask for one of the iPads so I can see the goal and see if their goalie has any obvious weak spots in this game.
I review the tape, feeling pride blossom in my chest. It was a good shot. Their goalie may be short, standing only five foot ten, but he’s damn good. I’m honestly surprised I was able to get it past him.
Handing the iPad back to the assistant coach, I take a quick drink from one of the bottles, spraying the ice-cold water into my mouth.
One of our guys shoots, pinging off the post. The crowd oohs and aahs in response.
But nothing comes of their shift or anyone else’s for the remainder of the second period, no goals or penalties.
When the buzzer rings out, we head to the locker room for intermission. I might have to slam an applesauce cup when we get back there. I can feel my body needing a little boost. Which is exactly what I do, taking it like a damn Jell-O shot.
“Great job, Asher. Way to tie it up,” Coach praises, and the rest of the guys holler right after him.
“One period left. Don’t sit on your heels.
I feel like for the last couple minutes of the second, we were playing it safe.
Don’t do that. Be aggressive. Make shots.
Get pucks deep. That’s how we win. Captain. ”
Coach hands the metaphorical mic over to Elias, our captain, before the coaches leave the room to us.
“Good job out there so far, guys, but I know we can do better. Much better go-around the second period. Keep it up. Thank you, Ash, for lifting us up. Now let’s all do the same.”
He raises his hands, signaling the end of his little pep talk. We all mirror him, clapping simultaneously as he slaps his hands together. Everyone falls away into their own conversations, and a couple of iPads are passed around to review tape from the last period.
I’m not one who usually dives into game play during intermission. I like to take the time to get my head out of the game, so when the clock resets, I’m fresh.
Dean sits next to me, drinking water like an elephant as he empties out the bottle. One of the staff immediately brings him another, trading him.
Usually, this is where he’s the most talkative. This is his element. But he hasn’t muttered a single word.
“What’s on your mind?” I bump his knee with mine, knowing that he needs to talk it out or it’ll carry into next period.
He sprays more water into his mouth. “I don’t know. A lot of things, I guess. But I hate not knowing shit. It’s like a puzzle that I can’t stop obsessing over until I have all the answers.”
“You’re talking about the mystery girl.” My heart kicks up.
He nods. “Yeah. I just don’t get it.”
I chuckle. “And you hate not getting things.”
He side-eyes me. “Don’t be a little shit right now.”
“He can’t help it,” Griffin chimes in, sitting on the other side of Dean. “Now … who’s this mystery girl?”
Shit.
Griffin may seem like a grumpy ass most of the time, but he’s aggravatingly selfless … and nosy.
Dean tries to play it off. “Oh, no one. It’s nothing.”
His attempt fails miserably, and Griffin slides closer to us. “Does it have anything to do with your guys’ absence at the party? You vanished for, like … hours. A lot of time to do a lot of things …”
“Shut up. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean groans, clearly affected, which only encourages Griffin more.
“Oh, it’s definitely about the party!” Griffin confirms. “So, who is she?”
“That’s kind of our problem … we don’t know,” I admit honestly, wanting to be done jumping through hoops to avoid Griffin. He’s the most stubborn dog when he gets a whiff of something.
Dean joins in. “We tried going through the guest list, but no one on there checks out as our girl.”
“Our girl?” Griffin smirks. “Kinky.”
Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”
A serious tone finds Griffin’s voice. “Okay, so the guest list didn’t work out. What next?”
“Go door to door?” Dean chuckles.
Griffin’s face lights up. “I have an idea, but it’s not necessarily a good one.”
We both sit up and look at him, waiting for him to continue.
“It could get you suspended or expelled.”
“Doubt it. We’ll just donate for another arena and building.” I smirk, leaning forward, my elbows on my knees.
Griffin rolls his eyes before continuing, “You guys remember Blair’s ex, who sent photos of her out to the entire school, using the—”
“The automated messaging system. Yes!” I hop off the seat, a burst of energy shooting through me. I pump myself up and down, rising up onto the balls of my feet. “Why didn’t I think of that? That’s genius.”
Dean waves his hands like he’s trying to cool me off. “We don’t know for certain that she’s a student though. And that’s a big step to misuse the system if we’re wrong.”
“You just don’t want to get in trouble, D.” I chuckle. “Look, I get it.”
He squints at me, fighting a smile. “No, I don’t think you do. Or have ever gotten it. You love trouble.”
I point at him. “That may be true, buuuut this is different. We have to do this.”
He sighs—contemplating the risks in his mind, I’m sure. “It might be worth a shot.”
A Legends staff comes in, announcing five minutes left before lineup.
“Let’s talk more after the game,” Dean mutters.
“Deal,” I agree with Dean before turning to Griff. “You’re a genius. Thank you.”
“Anytime.” He chuckles. “Now, let’s go kick some Gargoyle ass.”
“Fuck yeah!” I shout, amped up to get back on the ice with a newfound fire.
Kicking Gargoyle ass is exactly what we end up doing, beating them four to two by the time the third period runs out.
We couldn’t have asked for a better outcome. No fights. No injuries. The perfect ending.
Now let’s hope our search will end the same.
It doesn’t take much to get into the school’s messaging system. A prompt bribe for a couple of workers in admin, promising new vehicles and cash, and they were happy to help.
“Are you sure about this?” Dean asks nervously as I type into the computer. “It’s going to be mayhem.”
“Positive. If she’s a student, she’ll get the message. If not, then we’ve at least eliminated thousands of girls from the list of possibilities,” I argue, finishing the message. “You ready?”
Dean taps his fingers incessantly on the table beside me. Silence hangs heavy in the air while I wait for his response.
I know this is a lot for my rule-following brother, but this is a good risk. We might actually find her this way. I know he wants that just as badly as I do.
A small smile tugs at the corners of his lips, and his eyes find mine with an intensity I’m not sure I’ve seen before. “Send it.”
I click, scheduling the message to send tests to Dean and me before sending it out to the full contact list tomorrow at noon.
It processes through, and a second later, a confirmation appears on the screen. Five seconds more, and my phone chimes, along with Dean’s.
I open the text to make sure it’s right, and it’s absolutely perfect.
Come on, Princess. It’s time to come out of hiding.
Our Mystery Girl, This past weekend, a woman wearing a blue gown and mask swept us off our feet. If this was you, meet us tonight, in our special place. Please, Princess. We just want to see you again. —Asher and Dean Kensington