Thirteen #3
Darcy’s brows lift in surprise. “Alright?” she questions.
I nod once more. “Alright.”
I hate to admit it, but Darcy’s right.
I can’t unsee it now—the slight dip of Clay’s head before they pass, before they shoot. I’m not sure how I missed it before, but now that I know, swiping the puck from them is like taking candy from a baby.
And I’m not the only one back in my groove. After our regroup, and my surprisingly sincere speech in the locker room, everyone’s firing on all cylinders.
Especially Indie.
She’s got the puck now, and she’s a blur, pushing forward with strong strides.
Something tells me that if anxiety wasn’t eating away at her, she’d be faster than Clay and I combined.
I can tell she’s nervous, feeling the Giants on her trail, but Bailey’s right behind her, blocking their advances.
The whir of the crowd amplifies as she gets closer.
This could be our chance to put another one on the board.
But just as she glides toward the crease, #10 materializes. With one swift motion, they swipe the puck away from Indie, sending her stumbling to the ground again.
I should turn around, follow them, and regain control. But something stops me, tugging at my chest, pulling me back.
That letter “C.”
Indie’s sprawled on the ice, her breath heavy and frustrated, gloves slipping as she struggles to pull herself back up. Her helmet’s askew, a tendril of hair falling loose, and when our eyes meet, I see the hint of tears threatening to spill.
I slide over to her, offering my hand.
Her eyes shoot up, surprised, and for a moment, her body tenses, like she’s about to push me away.
As if accepting help would make things worse.
I know that feeling. But she takes my hand anyway, fingers locking tightly around mine.
I pull her to her feet, patting her shoulder just as the crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
The Giants scored another point.
By the time I even register it, the score’s already on the board.
3–4. Even though we’re still up by one, my stomach sinks. But it’s fleeting, because somewhere behind me, I hear a voice.
“I don’t know if you know this, but you’re supposed to block it,” Clay sneers, a cocky grin spreading across their face as they hover in front of the net. Harlowe’s eyes narrow, and something smoldering sparks in her gaze.
Oh shit.
“What the fuck did you just say to me?” she growls loudly. Her body tenses, the heat in her cheeks spreading down her neck.
Clay doesn’t back down. The space between them shrinks until they’re nearly mask to mask. The sound of my pulse is heavy in my ears as I move toward them, trying to break it up.
But I’m too late.
A shove from Clay, their hands pressing into Harlowe’s chest, and she’s on them in an instant. Tossing her stick to the side, her fists come up—first one, then the other—landing hard against Clay’s shoulders, their helmet, anywhere she can get a hit.
Gloves hit the ice in a clatter, lost in the chaos that follows.
I watch in a daze as Harlowe’s fury is unleashed in merciless strikes.
But Clay’s no victim. They shove her back, throwing a punch that catches her square in the chest. She stumbles, but she doesn’t stop; she’s right back on them, fists flying.
Everything around me blurs. I should step in. I should break this up. But I’m frozen, watching as a fight begins to spill across the ice. Sticks, helmets, gloves, limbs.
And then something in my peripheral grabs me.
My eyes dart across the rink, catching on #10.
Her gaze is locked on Indie, who’s standing to the side, staring in horror.
It’s intentional, aggressive, and I don’t know what comes over me, but they’ll have to carry me out on a stretcher before anyone lays a goddamn hand on that girl.
I slam my skates into the ice, pushing off harder than I thought possible. My heart is pounding, legs burning as I fight for every inch of space between me and #10. I don’t even brace myself as I crash into them with all my weight, the impact knocking the wind out of both of us.
We tumble to the ground, gloves and helmets slipping off, the cold ice sinking into my jersey.I barely have time to process the feeling before I glance over my shoulder.
Darcy’s eyes are locked on me, and in that split second, the world slows to a suffocating crawl.
I feel it, the jagged edge of glass tearing into my chest. Her expression is frozen, a perfect, disheartening compound of anger and disbelief, like she’s waiting for some impossible shift in the universe. A rewind.
I never knew fire to be green until I look into her eyes and see the flame.
It hits me then, what I’ve just done.
She believed in me. She trusted me. Finally began to understand what this means to me. Thought that I was all in. That I was serious.
And in one swift motion, I lit the match that burned her.
I try to move toward her, slipping as I pull myself up, lips parting to call out. When suddenly, a blur of black and white—then a sharp crack sears through my jaw.