Page 36 of Puck Wild


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Kostner met me there with the subtlety of a freight train.

We collided against the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. My helmet popped off and skittered across the ice, but I had the puck. Somehow, through Kostner's attempt to rearrange my ribs using his elbow, I had the fucking puck.

Pickle screamed my name from the slot. I barely saw him through the sweat stinging my eyes, but I heard him. I delivered a desperation pass—a blind shove toward where I hoped he'd be.

The puck found Pickle's blade. He buried it five-hole before their goalie could blink.

"GREASY VEGAS STRIKES AGAIN!" We heard Hog's roar over the goal horn and crowd noise.

I skated toward the team's celebration, helmet tucked under my arm, grinning like an idiot. Pickle crashed into me with enough force to knock us both sideways, and for a second, I forgot about the ache in my ribs.

I was playing for the fun of the game. Not for the cameras, the headlines, or the viral moments.

Late in the game, Coach called me into a short shift change. "Riley! You're up!"

I vaulted over the boards on tired legs. The puck was in our defensive zone, bouncing around like a pinball while both teams hacked at it.

It squirted free.

Somehow—with the help of whatever hockey gods were paying attention—the puck slid directly onto my blade. I looked up and saw nothing but open ice stretching toward their net.

Breakaway.

My brain immediately tried to register every way this could go wrong. I was tired. Their goalie was good. Breakaways were for highly skilled players, not reformed reality TV disasters who rapped about puck life.

My legs kept moving anyway.

I hit the red line with Kostner breathing down my neck. Center ice with their goalie squaring up, making himself big. The crowd noise faded to static.

Don't think. Play.

The five-hole opened for half a second. I didn't plan the shot—it just happened.

The puck slid between the goalie's pads like it belonged there.

The goal horn blared. The crowd erupted. My teammates poured off the bench like they were fleeing a burning building.

I coasted toward the glass, arms raised, trying to process what had just happened. The scoreboard blinked:STORM 2, RAPTORS 1. And underneath, in smaller letters that made me blink:GOAL: J. RILEY (1).

My first goal as a member of the Thunder Bay Storm. Ugly as hell, but it counted.

Back on the bench, guys tapped my helmet. Someone handed me a water bottle. Then, Evan sat beside me.

He didn't say anything. It was unnecessary. As he settled onto the bench, adjusting his gloves, he rapped his knuckles twice against my shin pad.

Quick. Casual. Anyone watching would've missed it.

For me, it was electric.

Two game minutes later, it was all over.

When we reached the locker room, it exploded like a shaken beer can.

We'd won. My goal gave us the victory.

I sat in my stall, still in full gear except for my gloves, watching the party unfold around me. Pickle was doing a victory dance involving hip thrusts and stick twirling. Hog had stripped down to his underwear and socks, flexing his massive shoulders while someone took photos.

The air was thick with steam, celebration, and joy, making grown men act like teenagers who'd just turned legal.