Chapter 15
Fifteen
Sawyer
I inhale, watching the ref’s hand.
Watching the puck in the ref’s hand.
Hearing the trill of the whistle.
Seeing his fingers open and the puck drop toward the ice.
I’m already moving, slashing at my opponent’s stick, trying to gain that extra inch or two so I can have an advantage with the win.
It works this time, but I’m only winning half of my draws tonight.
The Hawks—and Ace fucking Ambrose—have gone from the worst team in the league to one of our toughest competitors.
Which is annoying as fuck, especially because Ace and I have been trading face-off wins all game.
But also good for the league, for the sport, and for my friends.
Smack!
“Ouch, Christ,” I mutter as Ace’s stick slashes down over my hands, the sting reverberating through my knuckles, my palms, my fingers. I ignore the pain, drive forward and draw Ace with me, giving Smitty the opportunity to skate with the puck a few strides.
He’s older, on the leeward side of his hockey career—and gearing up for his future one as one of Vi’s matchmakers (he hopes)—but he’s still one of the most solid guys we have back at the blue line.
Case in point?
He finds a lane that no one else has seen and he makes a true beaut of a pass.
It lands on Gray’s stick with a soft crack and then my teammate is moving, hauling ass for the Hawks’ zone and cutting in hard to the goal.
He’s big. He’s strong.
He’s annoying as fuck to play against.
All of which means I’m damn glad to have him on my team.
Aiden joins in on the play, skating hard to the net, so I hang high, covering his position as they drive to the goal, connecting another pass before Aiden’s attempt at a shot is directed wide and is scooped up by Shepherd Hall, one of the Hawks’ best defensemen.
He fires the puck along the boards, and I lurch toward it, catching it in my glove and dropping it to the ice at my skates.
Immediately, the Hawks are on me, someone shoving me into the boards.
I grunt as I fight to keep the puck for long enough to pass it off to Leo, who’s working hard to get open.
A gap appears and I kick it over to him, shoving off the Hawks player and skating hard toward the far side of the goal.
Skates crunch.
Sticks crack.
The crowd yells.
Curses abound—one of them trailing behind me as I find a bit of space and Leo fires the puck back over to me.
I corral it, deke around the defender (not Shep).
How do I know this?
Because my next dangle brings me into his orbit.
I drag the puck back with the toe of my stick, sliding it toward my skates and then kicking it up and around, avoiding his stick.
Unfortunately, I don’t avoid his body.
The fucker may not be the biggest guy on the ice, but he’s strong as hell.
Something I experience in the next second as I grunt, fly back, and hit the ice hard.
My helmet bounces against it, sending my teeth crashing together, a jarring bolt of pain ricocheting through my jaw despite my mouthguard.
The crowd gasps and I can’t lie—it fucking hurts.
Especially for one long second when it feels as though my lungs are never going to start working again.
But even as that worry is crossing through my mind, the pressure around my torso eases, my muscles relax, and my body allows me to suck in a breath.
Then another.
Then I’m pushing up to my feet, my mind racing to catch up to the action I’ve missed.
Only several heartbeats of time.
But that’s enough for the puck to have squirted to the corner, for one of the Hawks players to pick it up.
Fuck that.
I haul ass across the distance, throw my body against the fucker, reveling in his grunt, his curse…and the way the puck slips free.
Scooping it up, I drive hard into Shep this time, sending him back a pace.
It doesn’t buy me much time.
But it gives me plenty of opportunity.
Hockey is fucking hard—it’s a brutal sport of blood and inches, fights and broken bones, wars of attrition and shattered spirits.
This moment, however, feels easy.
Natural.
One of those perfect few seconds of kismet.
Where everything goes right.
Where all the pieces drop into place.
Where I feel completely at home even as the world spins around me.
The puck does exactly what I want. The ice opens up. The goalie flashes me a space to shoot.
So…I take it.
I fire a shot at the net.
Time slows.
I don’t breathe.
Even my heart seems to stop for one long moment.
Then I exhale and everything moves in warp speed.
The puck flies toward the goal, shooting toward that opening in the upper right corner.
The goalie lifts his glove, trying to catch it.
But…
Too slow.
The puck sails by just above his glove, hitting the back of the net and dropping to the ice.
For a moment everyone freezes and the arena goes quiet.
Then the red light behind the net flashes on and—
Explosion.
Of excitement from the crowd, of frustration from the Hawks, of cheers from my teammates as they close ranks and hug me, clapping me on the back, tapping me on the head.
“Fuck yeah,” Smitty says.
“Hell of a Christmas present,” Gray says with a grin, nodding up at the clock.
Twenty seconds left in the game.
And now we’re up a goal.
Fuck yeah, indeed.
I’m grinning as we skate back to the bench, as my coach taps me on the shoulder, as the next line hops on and the puck drops a final time, as the clock ticks down to zero.
But I know the main reason my smile doesn’t fade is because Lainey and Ollie watched me do that.