I barely get the pass cradled into my curve before I’m lofting that puck forward towards him again.
He winds up.
Puck launches.
Slams against the back of the net.
The crowd detonates in a frenzy of cheering and stomping, swearing, roaring, fist-waving. Probably fist-fighting too.
“Yeah, you think you’re gonna do that again?” The opposing player with the bloody shirt flies up next to me, ready to start a fight.
And I’m ready to meet him.
Someone hurls another puck onto the ice. And when Twenty-Three swoops in to scoop it up, my hockey instinct overrides the fight.
I spin, leave my trash-talking opponent behind as I race to get into passing position. My skates carve the ice, wind ringing in my ears, and I’mhere, here to play, skate, dominate, let the game own me.
“Open!” I roar, and I cut in, opening up the passing lane. A narrow window—
But he sees it. Twenty-Three sees it, and he nails the puck directly onto my tape. It’s in my hands now as I rocket towards the net. Goalie’s eyeing me, and an opponent hurtles forward.
But I feel him, my teammate, like a phantom limb. Feel his presence beyond my periphery.
Opposition pummels in.
I hold steady.
Steady . . .
Drop the puck just before the opposer collides with me, leaving it for Twenty-Three to scoop up—unmolested and undefended—as I tangle with the defender.
I shove him off, and Twenty-Three plasters the puck to our third teammate’s tape.
One-timer.
The puck bounces off the goalie’s pads, but I’m already cutting in, crashing the net.
Lifting the puck in a shot—
Someone grabs at my jersey, hauling me away from said net. Nearly tugging my feet out from under me.
I whirl.
Gloves and stick already dropping, because it’s one thing to get in my face, but you touch my jersey and I turn back into the boy who used to own the ice in blood and fists and fury.
My bared knuckles swing.
The rest of the world whites out. Fades away. Vanishes. It’s this moment, here, slowed to the stop-motion of game play. Of fights. Of being so viscerally fucking alive, nothing else matters.
My knuckles crack his cheek.
My heart throbs in my throat, skull, chest. Hands and feet.
His head whips sideways as my fist curves, completing the swing of my arm in a heavy follow-through.
He stumbles.
My fist snaps back up towards my face, knees easing into a half crouch as I prepare for another hit.
