Chapter One #2
The opposing winger cuts wide, and his shot comes in low glove side.
Easy.
I drop, seal the ice, smother it before there’s a rebound.
The ref blows his whistle for a routine faceoff.
I hand the puck to the ref and reset. This is what I’m good at. This is what makes sense. But the second play comes harder.
Cam miscalculates at the blue line, and suddenly it’s a two-on-one coming straight at me. My body goes quiet in that way it does when everything slows down.
Shooter’s eyes flick right.
Pass.
I push across, extend—
Pad save.
The puck ricochets into the corner. Knight clears it out before they can crash.
“Atta boy!” someone yells.
I nod once. That’s all I give.
Midway through the period, things start getting chippy.
It always happens this way with the Redhawks. A missed call. A bad hit. Someone decides to test the temperature.
Their center—big guy, plays like he’s got something to prove—starts lingering in my crease a little too long after whistles. The first time, I let it go.
The second time, I nudge him with my blocker. Not hard. Just enough to say move. He smirks at me in response.
The third time, he plants himself right on top of my toes after a save, crowding my space while the ref blows the play dead.
“Back it up,” I demand.
He doesn’t move, just leans in a fraction closer, like he didn’t hear me. My pulse ticks up because this is my space.
The ref finally skates in and separates us, but the guy taps my pad with his stick as he backs off.
Friendly. Real friendly.
I stare at him until he turns away and resets. Play resumes as I try to shake it off. Try being the key word.
The next rush comes fast. Bowen gets stripped at the blue line, and suddenly they’re coming down again, numbers in their favor.
A shot rings out from the slot. I glove it clean.
Another whistle sounds, and there he is again, right on top of me. This time, he “loses his balance,” or at least that’s what everyone else might think. To me, it feels like two hundred pounds of dead weight slamming into me, his skate clipping my pad, his stick jamming up into my ribs.
My spine hits the ice hard, and for a split second, all I see is white. Then sound crashes back in. Crowd noise spikes. The ref yells. My heartbeat pounds in my ears.
He’s still on top of me. Still in my crease.
Something in me snaps, and I shove him off hard. Harder than I need to.
He stumbles back a step, hands up like he didn’t do anything. “What? I fell.”
Bullshit.
Rising to my skates, I close the distance before my brain can catch up.
“Yeah, funny way to fall,” I snap.
He grins. That’s what does it. That stupid, smug grin like I’m a joke. Like this is a game inside the game and he’s winning.
“You good, Rourke?” he adds. “Or you gonna cry over a little love tap?”
I don’t remember deciding to move until my gloves are on his pads, shoving him back. “Stay outta my crease, asshole.”
“Make me.”
The words hit a deep and ugly place. Before I can stop it, my blocker catches him under the chin. Not full force, but not light, either. Enough.
Enough to change the tone.
With that one action, everything explodes.
Players rush in from both sides. Bowen’s voice cuts through the chaos, barking orders I barely hear. Tristan’s pulling someone off me. The linesman’s between us, trying to keep it from turning into a full-on brawl.
The ref’s whistle is shrill, constant. “Rourke! Back off!”
I don’t. I’m still locked on him, chest heaving, every muscle tight and ready to go again.
He scoffs and shoves at me again over the linesman’s arm. That grin stays planted, even with a red mark forming on his jaw.
“You’re done,” one of the refs says, grabbing my arm. “That’s enough.”
I yank free, not looking at him, or anyone else for that matter. My world narrows down to one thing.
Protect the crease. Protect your space. Protect—
“Owen.”
Bowen again.
Louder this time. Sharper. It cuts through just enough for me to blink, and reality snaps back in pieces. The crowd is on its feet. The ref stares at me.
Coach Metcalfe stands behind the bench, arms crossed, his expression like a storm about to break. My teammates mill around. They’re not laughing or chirping but watching me.
I take one step back. Then another. My chest rises too fast. My hands vibrate inside my gloves.
The ref points toward the box. “Two minutes. Roughing.”
Could’ve been worse. Should’ve been worse.
Lenyx goes in my place, skating past Bowan on his way to the box.
My friend leans in just enough to say, “Get it under control.”
I don’t answer because I don’t have it under control. Not really. I take a shot of water from the bottle over the net, staring out at the ice, trying to slow my breathing.
The replay flashes on the jumbotron, and from that angle, it looks clean. Like I lost my temper over nothing. Like I went after him. But I know exactly what happened.
The narrative writes itself.
I snap my mask back into place.
It’s not even the hit that’s going to stick.
It’s the way it looked. I already know it.
One bad angle, one clipped video, and suddenly I’m the asshole goalie who can’t keep his temper in check.
No one’s going to see him leaning on me first. Knocking me down and trying to hurt me on purpose.
No one’s going to care that he kept coming into my space jonesing for a reaction.
They’ll see what they want to see. They always do.
I press my lips together behind the cage, trying to force everything into place, but it’s too late for that.
The damage is already done, and somewhere three thousand miles away, my mom is standing in a house that’s falling apart, watching this on TV, while I’m out here proving everyone right about me.