Page 84 of Fake Out Hearts

He’s fucking with me, and I know he is, but what pisses me off even more is that it’s working. He’s getting under my skin. I suck down gulps of air, trying to keep my cool, and smash my shoulder hard into his as I skate by. Kaplan stumbles backward but doesn’t fall. He laughs and shakes his head.

“I guess that means she hasn’t told you about her little problem yet, has she?”

“She already gotten rid of the biggest problem in her life—you,” I spit back and take my position. He wants a reaction out of me, wants to make me do something stupid. But I’m not going to give him the satisfaction. Besides, I don’t even know what the fuck he’s talking about, and it’s probably bullshit anyway. Just like everything else that comes out of his mouth.

But just like I thought, being down two goals must be getting to him because he’s glaring at me as we face off again. Knowing I’m the one pissing him off for once gives me a twisted kind of satisfaction, so I can’t wait to see the pissy look on his face when I score on himagain.

But Reese takes the puck this time, probably because I’m too distracted with Kaplan, so I chase after him. I can’t really keep my eye on him though, because Kaplan keeps blocking my view.Clearly, he doesn’t want to risk me sinking another shot, so I try to fake him out, but he doesn’t fall for it.

We keep dancing down the ice like this until Reese pivots near the goal and tries to pass back to me. I reach out for it, but Kaplan slashes his stick down on mine, nearly taking my fucking hand off. That sends me over the edge, and before I realize what’s happening, my gloves are off and I’m slamming him against the boards. I rip his helmet away and land a few punches to his smug face before the refs peel me off him and escort me to the penalty box.

It’s not until I sit down in a huff that I blink and realize blood’s dripping down into my eye from my brow. I must have cut it somehow in the fight. Noah’s going to be furious with me for letting Kaplan goad me into a penalty like this, but he fucking slashed me. What was I supposed to do, just let him get away with it?

The prick is lucky the refs were here. I sit stewing and waiting for the refs to penalize Kaplan too, but when the teams form up again and Kaplan’s still on the ice, my blood boils. How the hell did he dodge the box?! He openly slashed me, which is what led to the fight in the first place.

There’s an agonizing ten minutes on my penalty clock for fighting, which means I won’t be able to get back out on the ice until the end of the game. Maybe it’s because everyone else is on edge after my fight with Kaplan, but they all seem to have backed off, gotten more tentative. And that only pisses me off more. Now’s not the time to waffle! We’re up two points to nothing and we need to keep that going.

But three minutes into my penalty, the Prowlers score on Grant. I pound my fists against the bench, furious. At least it wasn’t Kaplan who scored the goal, but still. As if he knows I’m thinking about him, Kaplan skates by and scowls at me on hisway to the face off. I raise my fist to flip him off but catch myself. I don’t want any more time added to my penalty.

Another five minutes pass without a goal for either side, but that only makes me antsy, especially as the teams keep trading possession of the puck. I jump out of my seat with every attempted pass and interception. Someone’s bound to score at this rate, and it better be us. We’re approaching the final ten minutes of the game.

With one minute left to go on my penalty, the Prowlers sink another shot—this time by kicking it in. The Prowlers’ left wing took the shot, but bounced it off the outside of the goal, and before Grant could recalibrate and figure out where the puck landed, Kaplan was there to kick it in. Because of course he was.

I’m not sure what’s worse, that they scored a goal like that, or that it was Kaplan, of all people, who did it. When my penalty time finally ends, I’m already standing with my helmet back on and ready to charge out onto the ice. The game is tied now with a little less than ten minutes to go, so it’s up to me to bring the fire.

And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I dash out of the box and take my place on the right wing during the face off. Kaplan’s there, giving me his stupid fucking smug smile, but I’m not about to let him goad me into another trip to time out. All we need to do is score one more goal and keep it locked to win the game, and that’s the most important thing to me.

“You gonna behave this time?” Noah calls to me, but he’s wearing a smile that tells me he’s not exactly upset about the fact I beat Kaplan’s face in.

“On my best behavior, scout’s honor!” I shout back and cross one arm over my chest. Noah chuckles and turns back to the game, so I crouch, ready to spring again. I’ve got so much pent-up energy from the last ten minutes spent locked in the box thatI feel like I could skate a hundred laps around this giant ass area and still not burn it off.

The ref tosses the puck, and I lunge for it, but the Prowlers’ right wing gets there first and starts rocketing down the ice toward Grant. Sawyer heads him off as he inches into the defensive zone and forces him to turn around long enough for me to catch up and intercept. I swipe the puck away from the right wing and in one continuous, fluid motion, spin to send it soaring down the ice in the opposite direction toward Noah.

Noah completes the pass like it’s nothing, like he psychically knew I was going to spin it back to him, and shoots on a wide-open Prowlers’ goalie. Not even their defenseman was prepared for such a quick turnaround in possession, so when the puck soars past their goalie and crashes into the net, he’s just as confused as the rest of his team about how it happened.

But the roaring and stomping in the stands overpowers it as the goal lights flash and the buzzers sound repeatedly. Noah meets me at center ice and pulls me in for a hug, pounding on my helmet with his glove.

“That was your goal, you know that, right?” he bellows over the noise. “When we win this game, and we will, it’s because of you.”

Maybe when the game’s actually over and the victory is ours, I’ll be able to bask in what he just said, but in the moment, all I can think about is defending our position for the next few minutes until the timer runs out. If we happen to score again, great, but we don’t have to. We just have to beat the clock.

The Prowlers seem to be losing momentum—probably because their morale is sinking. They know the odds aren’t in their favor. We have the home advantage with Aces fans filling the stands and cheering us on, we’re up three to two, and there’s less than three minutes left on the clock. The best they can hope for is a tie at this point.

But I’m not going to let that happen, either.

Over the next two minutes, I skate my ass off, intercepting every single play that I can manage and crossing the ice so many times I lose track. The Prowlers are down but not out, and like cornered animals, the closer we get to the wire, the more desperate they seem to get.

During one of our last face-offs with about a minute left on the clock, their left wing gets a penalty for trying to trip Reese with his stick. The Prowlers are furious about it, but they should’ve thought about that before they decided to play dirty. Because now they’re playing shorthanded and know there’s next to no chance they’re going to turn things around.

We square up for what will probably be the last face off with thirty seconds left on the clock, and although my entire body is screaming with soreness and exertion, I’m still electrified—and determined to win this game. All that stands between me and humiliating Kaplan and the rest of the Prowlers is thirty seconds.

I catch a glimpse of Becca in the stands while waiting for the ref to drop the puck. She’s standing with her fists pressed nervously against her mouth, but when she notices me looking, she throws her hands in the air and shouts something I can’t make out, but it’s all I need to see to take me to the end.

The ref blows his whistle and tosses the puck, and the next thirty seconds pass in a blur. I barely keep track of the puck as it zooms between players, but neither team manages to get it far enough away from center ice for it to matter. And when the final buzzer sounds, and the crowd goes ballistic as the screens above the ice declare our victory, I breathe a sigh of relief.

The Aces pile together around me, shouting and pumping their sticks in the air for the crowd who are still going nuts, and I finally let myself feel the moment as I look around at all the cheering people. We did it. Two of our three goals were mine,and the third one was because of me too. If anything should make the sports rags stop talking about how I’ve “lost my game,” it’s having a win like this.

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