The puck hits my stick, and I flick it up the boards.
“Wheel!” Isabella’s voice cuts through the noise from the bench.
I curl around the net, see Austin open up. I pass it toward him.
Austin catches it in stride, weaving around two Westbrook guys with that easy confidence he always has when he plays.
“Right side!” Logan calls out.
I shift left to cover, just as one of their forwards barrels in hard. I plant, shoulder him off, and he stumbles. Shoots me a look like he wants a rematch.
Bring it.
Westbrook’s scrambling, and I can feel the shift in the game. Their defense is slow to react, and Austin’s already moving, cutting through their guys like it’s second nature. He takes the pass clean, shifts left, and in one smooth motion, he’s got the perfect shot lined up.
The puck flies, and before their goalie even knows what hit him, it’s in the back of the net.
The buzzer sounds off, and the crowd erupts.
Austin skates back, a grin on his face, fists pumping in the air. “Let’s go, baby,” he yells.
He’s grinning like he’s just won the damn lottery, high-fiving everyone within reach. Nathan shoots us a quick thumbs up from the crease, his eyes locked on the puck, focused as ever, despite the score. We’re up by two, and Westbrook’s starting to get desperate.
The whistle blows, and one of their forwards ignores it—charges in and hammers Cole from behind.
He slams into the ice hard, his stick flying, his feet slipping out from under him.
“Fuck,” I grit under my breath. Instinct kicks in before thought does. I lunge forward.
Westbrook’s guy doesn’t let up, not even with Cole down on the ice.
I slam into him, hard enough that I’m pretty sure I hear his teeth rattle, but the asshole doesn’t fall, just stumbles slightly.
Cole’s up fast. He throws a punch that lands with a crack. Gloves are flying, refs are yelling, and bodies are tangled. It’s a fucking mess.
The ref’s whistle cuts through, but neither of them back down. Their elbows are flying, sticks tangled, bodies crashing on the ice.
As soon as Cole and the Westbrook guy hit the ice again, the whistle blows, and the refs pull them off each other. One of them points straight at Cole and the Westbrook player, signaling for the penalty box.
“Both of you. Box. Now.”
Cole skates off the ice, breathing hard, his eyes still locked on the guy who hit him like he’s about to rip through the glass and take another shot. I watch him as he skates past me, jaw tight, his face a mask of pure focus, blood still dripping from where he took the hit.
I follow him to the penalty box, slowing down to fall in step beside him. “You good?” I ask, as I roll my shoulders.
Cole flexes his hand, his fingers curling and uncurling like he’s still itching for a fight. He doesn’t look at me, just mutters, “Guy’s a dick.”
“You took that hit like it was personal.”
“Felt personal.” He heads into the penalty box, ripping off his helmet and throwing it to the floor. His chest heaves, eyes locked on the ice like he’s already planning round two.
“I need you on the ice, not in the box,” Coach snaps. “Stop taking the bait.”
Isabella’s already scribbling on her clipboard, her eyes meeting mine when she lifts her head. “Run play five next shift. They’re leaving the left side wide open.”
I nod and push off the boards, refocused as the game continues. The clock is ticking down and I skate back in my zone, keeping my eyes locked on the puck. Westbrook’s throwing everything they’ve got at us, but Nathan’s been a fucking wall in net. I can feel the win in my bones.
Logan meets my eyes, and he sends the puck zipping my way.
