“I know,” I mutter. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
“There is no right moment,” Cade says bluntly.
“Just don’t let Simpson mess with your head tonight,” Jamie adds. “The last thing we need is this drama affecting our play.”
“I’m not going to let him get under my skin. But Nate?” Iglance over my shoulder one last time before warm-ups end. “I can’t guarantee the same for him.”
I promised I’d play fair tonight. And I’ve kept that promise for two and a half periods of play while Nate Simpson does everything he can to throw off my game—missing obvious passes to me when I’m wide open, “accidentally” getting in my way during line changes, and not being where he’s supposed to be on the ice.
Now that we’re down by one with three minutes left on the clock, we really need to be playing as a team, not me dodging Simpson’s subtle sabotage during plays. If we can just maintain possession, we might be able to tie it up, sending the game into overtime.
We’re breaking out of our own zone when I send the puck up to where Simpson should be positioned on the left wing. It’s a play we’ve run dozens of times in practice. Instead of being there to receive it, he’s drifted toward center ice, leaving the puck to slide into the corner.
More importantly, it leaves me completely exposed to a Barracuda forechecker.
A crushing weight slams into me, driving me into the boards. My helmet smacks against the plexiglass, and then I’m down on the ice, ears ringing, head throbbing, spots swimming in my vision. The hometown crowd erupts with booing, while the referee’s whistle pierces the air. My world tilts for a second as I see the Barracuda player skating away and Simpson gliding back toward his position like nothing happened, not even a hint of concern on his face. The referee’s arm goes up, signaling a penalty on the Barracudas.
“You okay, man?” Asher extends a gloved hand, helping me to my feet.
I nod, wobbling as my head swims, and I taste metal in my mouth. My lip is split, and when I touch my cheek, my glove comes away with a smear of blood.
“That was a cheap shot,” Cade growls, glaring toward the penalty box. “Need a break?”
“I’m fine,” I groan, noticing Nate’s avoiding me.
Coach signals a player change, but I shake my head. I’m staying in, especially now that I know who allowed this to happen.
The buzzer sounds and we line up for the face-off, my jaw clenching as my ribs throb. The puck drops and Hayes wins the face-off, sliding it to Simpson, who fakes left, then sends a quick pass to Lennox. As he takes it toward our goal, Jack Dillman from San Diego knocks it away and the puck spirals toward me. In one fluid motion, I take the puck and redirect it back to Hayes, who quickly takes it toward our goal and taps it in.
The crowd erupts as Hayes pumps his fist and points at me. I’m not celebrating yet, because the score is now tied 2–2, with a minute forty still on the clock—plenty of time for things to change.
For the next minute, we battle back and forth, knowing one more goal from either team will decide the game. We’ve had a line change with Smith replacing Tremblay for defense, and now all of us are playing rough, fighting for control of the puck.
As Smith steals the puck, two opponents converge on him and he threads a perfect pass to me. I have a clear shot, even though their goalie is already anticipating my move and sliding to block my angle.
I pass to Lennox just as Dillman dives toward him and scoops it up. He’s lightning fast, quicker than anyone on our team, and he’s got nothing but open ice ahead of him during his breakaway with fifteen seconds left.
“Back! Get back!” Coach shouts from the bench.
I pivot hard, skating as fast as I can, but Dillman has too much of a head start. Clément, our goalie, prepares for the shot, getting into his butterfly stance.
Dillman sends it over Clément’s outstretched glove into the top corner of the net.
The buzzer sounds a second later. 3–2 Barracudas.
Dillman pumps both fists as his teammates pile on top of him, celebrating their last-second victory. From the bench, Nate’s mouth twists, like he’s glad to see we blew the final play.
I skate over to Clément, who’s still on his knees, staring at the goal in disbelief.
“Not on you,” I tell him, tapping his shoulder with my glove. “You did everything you could. We’ll get them next time.”
As we file off the ice, I taste the blood in my mouth. It bites—not just because we lost, but because Nate actively worked against me to make me play worse.
In the locker room, the mood is subdued after losing the game. Coach gives his post-game speech about what went wrong—missed opportunities, defensive breakdowns, lack of communication.
“And, Simpson,” Coach’s voice cuts through the room, “next time you decide not to cover your teammate’s back, you’ll be watching from the stands. This is a team sport, not a solo mission for revenge.”
The locker room goes dead silent. Nate’s face flushes, but he doesn’t say anything.
