14. Finn
FINN
The crowd is roaring, but I can’t hear it. All I hear is the scrape of blades, the slap of the puck, and the dull thud of bodies slamming into the boards. My blood’s already running hot, and it’s not just because this is our first game of the season.
It’s them .
Our greatest rivals: Northern Summit Glaciers.
I hate everything about them—their smug attitudes, dirty hits, and how they skate around like they own the ice.
They think they’re hot shit, when really, all they are is…
shit. It used to give me a sick sense of satisfaction, knowing that they had a girl on the team—how much it likely pissed them off.
But now the roles are reversed.
Guess the joke is on me.
With the stick in my hand and the hint of blood, metal, and cold ice in my nostrils, I’m at home.
This is where I thrive. Where chaos reigns.
As I push down on my skates, chasing the puck down the rink, the roar of the crowd is muted, like it’s happening underwater.
There’s nothing but the sound of my steady breath in my ears, the hollow clunk of the puck as it collides with my stick, and the blue crease up ahead .
Except tonight, something feels…off.
One of the Glaciers crashes into me before I can line up the shot, sending me tumbling into the boards while another snatches up the puck before I can recover.
Cursing, I take chase.
The Glaciers have always been our biggest rivals. Not because they are as good as we are—which they aren’t—but because our universities are situated a measly twenty miles apart. It has created an intense rivalry that has withstood the centuries. Even during an exhibition game, such as tonight.
However, this year, there’s something different.
This year, there’s Dylan.
I don’t recall playing against her before, but her low stats and vague comment about having to fight her teammates for the puck suggest that she didn’t see much ice time at NSU.
The same can’t be said for her time as a Steelhawk.
I dart across the blue line, catching a pass from Ethan. No way am I letting this one go. I take off like a bullet released from its chamber. My stick flexes as I slap the puck toward the net, but their goalie smothers it easily. The whistle blows.
Goddammit . My head falls back, and I groan to the rafters as I slowly circle back to the center ice for the face-off. We’re tied nil-nil with less than fifteen minutes left on the clock. Not a great start to the year.
I notice Dylan from the corner of my eye. She’s a few feet away, standing on Ethan’s other side, tapping the ice like she’s ready to go.
It’s weird seeing her there. Correction: it’s weird not seeing Reed there.
It’s been the three of us since freshman year.
It’s been me and Reed for even longer. I met him at peewee hockey camp when we were eleven, and for four weeks every summer, we’d dominate the ice, showing off whatever new tricks we’d learned that year .
Both of us talked about playing in college together, making it to the championships together, and eventually going pro— together .
Then, here comes Dylan, disturbing the status quo and changing everything we talked about doing.
My gaze flicks to the bench where Reed sits, geared up, stick fisted in his hand, and ready to go. His expression is one of pure concentration—and rage. There’s always rage there nowadays—not that I can blame him. I’d be pissed too.
I immediately feel bad because, no matter how much it sucks for my friend, Dylan has been doing a surprisingly good job of holding her own.
Which hasn’t been easy. The Glaciers have been going after her like she’s some sort of punching bag, slamming her into the boards at every opportunity, crowding her with their sticks and elbows whenever she has the puck.
It’s obvious to anyone watching that she’s their target, regardless of whether or not she has possession of the puck.
When I first saw how hard they were going for her, I expected her to ask Coach to switch her out, but I was wrong.
She’s been holding her own like a pro. She doesn’t expect any of us to come to her aid, doesn’t flinch when an opponent shoves her, and doesn’t hesitate to go after the puck even when it’s in the thick of the scrum.
She’s as fierce as any other Steelhawk on the ice.
“So, Blackstone took our sloppy seconds.” My head snaps in the direction of the Glaciers’ captain. Lucas Tremble grins like the asshole he is, leaning over his stick as he talks low enough that only the forwards can hear—Dylan included. “Guess it’s your turn to be bottom of the conference.”
The whistle blows, and I mentally cheer Ethan on as he wins the face-off. The puck comes loose, and I race for it.
The Glaciers swarm us, and it’s brutal. Every pass is contested, every shot blocked. And when Dylan makes an opening and gets the puck, it’s like a pack of wolves has descended on her. Three of them pin her against the boards, their sticks hacking at her like they’re trying to break her in half.
One of them wrestles the puck free and takes off.
Every instinct says chase him down, but something about leaving Dylan, still pinned to the glass, grates under my skin.
Catching my eye, her voice cuts through the noise. “Go, Finn!”
I grit my teeth—then go.
Still, unease twists my gut as I break down the ice.
The way they’re ganging up on her is excessive, like they’re using her as a punching bag for their frustrations.
She’s finally on an opposing team, and now they’re making sure she feels every bit of the frustration they’ve bottled for the past two years.
Fuck, are we going to feel the same way by the end of the season?
Will we resent her too?
When the games get harder, when the pressure mounts—will we turn on her like they have?
I want to believe we’re better than they are, but I’m not sure that we are.
By the time we rotate off the ice, we’re losing 1–0. Ethan slumps next to me on the bench, muttering under his breath.
“NSU’s not holding back tonight.”
“They’re out for blood,” I agree, spraying cold water from my bottle over my face.
I inadvertently spot Dylan sitting farther down the line, catching her breath. What snags my attention is the bright red on her chin, blood that has trickled from a split lip.
I hate myself for noticing, but more than that, I hate myself for the quick jolt of concern.
Ethan must see where my attention is as he mutters low for only me to hear, “They’re targeting her. ”
I simply nod, forcing my gaze away from her and back on the ice where it should be. I fist my stick in my gloved grip, taking my frustrations out on it.
Kyle would be devastated if he thought for one second I was worried about her. She knew what she was signing up for when she joined the team. The rest of it isn’t my problem. My loyalties lie with my friend. My teammate who is currently on the ice kicking ass.
Reed flies toward the net like the hounds of hell are on his ass. “Go, Reed!” I call, getting pumped as he sets up for a goal. Fuck, yes! We need to start pulling ahead of these assholes.
The crowd is on their feet, screaming him on.
Come on, Reed. You’ve got this .
He has the perfect shot at the net, but he fumbles the puck and it goes wide.
I slump back on the bench, my groan of frustration turning into outright cursing when NSU steals possession and takes it all the way home. It’s a cheap deflection that somehow finds the back of Griffin’s net, but still. 2–0. Fuck .
The first line is called up for our last shift of the game.
It’s a slugfest, with both teams refusing to back down.
Bodies collide, sticks clash, and the air is thick with the sound of skates carving into the ice.
I maneuver through the fray, my eyes darting, searching for an opportunity.
The Glaciers’ defense is relentless, their aggression intensifying as they aim to maintain their lead.
Dylan seizes the puck. Immediately, she is swarmed by NSU players who back her into the boards. One player twice her size rams into her so hard that her head snaps back against the plexiglass with a sickening thud.
Red flashes across my vision, teeth grinding as I do a sweep of the ice for the ref. He should be blowing his fucking whistle, announcing a penalty— something . Except the useless fucking prick has his back to the scene, missing the whole damn thing.
Anger simmers in my veins, and instead of positioning myself for an opening, I start toward her, instincts overriding reason when I see her slumped against the boards, head down.
She could be seriously fucking injured. This is why women shouldn’t play men’s hockey. It’s not that she’s not capable; it’s that she can’t stand up to two-hundred pounds of pure muscle. It’s that she’ll get herself hurt . Fucking killed , even.
However, before I make it to her, her head snaps up, and I catch a flash of menace, of unwavering determination, before she pushes off the boards.
In a move so fast I barely catch it, she breaks free from the players who had her pinned.
The puck’s still on her stick—untouched.
Almost like she was the target all along.
She pivots sharply, her agility leaving defenders grasping at empty air as she charges toward the goal.
The roar of the arena dulls to a distant hum, as everything narrows to her.
Every stride is sharp, controlled—cutting up the ice with a speed no one can match.
She weaves through the opposition like they aren’t even there, all instinct and fire.
It’s impossible to look away from. She’s impossible to look away from.
Time slows to a crawl as she approaches the goal, her focus unyielding. I find myself mesmerized, air lodged in my throat as, with a swift, decisive motion, she takes the shot.