“You okay?” Vale asks.
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, even though we both know that’s code forlet’s not talk about it.
She won’t get in my head tonight. And neither will the memory of the one girl whocouldfind me if she wanted to—but doesn’t.
The door of the locker room opens, and Coach steps in, causing everyone to quiet down and turn toward him for our pregame pep talk.
“Listen up, boys,” he calls. “I know tonight’s game isn’t going to be easy. The Wolves are a tough team. But so are we, especially since we don’t just play for the name on the back of our jerseys.” His eyes sweep over the room. “It’s gonna be a wild ride on the ice tonight. But I know you’ll pull through. You’ve worked hard, building something you can be proud of—a team.”
Then Coach stretches out his hand toward the center for the team huddle. One by one, we follow his lead, layering our hands in a collective stack before Lucian counts us down.
The buzz of excitement pulsates through my body. My teammates might be infuriating at times, but they’re the closest thing to family I’ve got these days.
“Go Crushers!” I yell in unison with the others.
It’s anyone’s guess what’ll happen on the ice tonight, but I know one thing—these guys have my back.
The puck slaps the wall and ricochets off, right toward me. I dig my blades into the ice and hustle after it. It’s the third period, tied 3–3 against the Wolves. These last few minutes will decide the game.
The hockey rink is the one place I can forget everything else. Out here, it’s just the puck, the ice, and my stick. No text messages from Tina, no teammates razzing me about mynonexistent dating life, no memories of Victoria wearing my jersey, cheering for me from the stands.
I skate full speed toward the loose puck, only vaguely aware of the scrape of metal blades behind me. I know who it is without looking—he’s been on my back all night. Doron Malenko, the Wolves’ top scorer, apparently has it out for me tonight.
The moment my stick touches the puck, Malenko’s blade jabs at it, trying to steal it.
“You play like my grandma,” he mutters under his breath. “And she’s blind.”
I flick the puck past him toward Tate. “Bet your grandma’s better at defense than you are.”
Malenko lunges to stop it but misses, and I chuckle under my breath.
“Now who’s the grandma?” I mutter, skating past him.
Malenko swears under his breath before he takes off after Tate with a look that makes a chill run down my spine. He’s not just trying to block the play—he’s hungry for revenge, and Tate’s his next target.
Malenko bodychecks Tate into the boards hard, his stick slamming against Tate’s ribs like a weapon.
Tate’s face twists in pain as he tries to steady himself. “Was that necessary?” Tate shoots back.
Malenko turns to me with a wicked grin. “Oops.”
He meant to do it. He freaking meant to hurt Tate to get back at me.
My fists clench around my stick as my heart hammers. Every shove, every dirty play from Malenko tonight flashes through my mind.
When my opponent skates closer, his smug look dares me to do something. “What’s the matter, Anderson? Gonna let me push your little buddy around like that?”
I watch Tate wince in pain as Malenko just laughs it off, and something inside me snaps. Right now, Malenko is messing with one of my hockey brothers, and I can’t let that slide.
The gloves come off—literally—and the crowd loses it. Hockey fans love a good fight, and this one’s been brewing all night. Malenko swings first, landing a solid punch on my lip. I taste the metallic tang of blood and get in a satisfying hit across his jaw.
My punch sends Malenko stumbling backward, making the crowd roar.
“That’s all you’ve got?” I ask.
“I’m just getting started,” he taunts, rubbing his jaw. Malenko swings and misses my face as someone grabs my arm to pull me away.
“Penalty box, Anderson. You too, Malenko,” one of the referees growls. “Now.”
