Page 28 of A Little Too Forward

I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cry. This is a dream job, a dream opportunity. Never, not in my wildest adult dreams, did I even imagine I would be dreading heading out on the road with the Toronto Nighthawks—that is the ultimate adventure for a sports reporter. Yet knowing Max will be there, that my literal job is to follow him around and record what his life is like, has my stomach in knots.

Because it’s not dread I’m feeling. It’s something much, much more complicated than that.

And that is going to be a huge fucking problem.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MAX

The crowd’s roar is deafening, like a second heartbeat pounding in my chest. My gloves tighten around my stick as I lean into the faceoff circle, my eyes locked on the puck. The score is tied, 2-2, and with less than five minutes on the clock. Every second counts if we want to get the lead and take the W.

The puck drops.

Boston’s centre, Howard Oliveri, wins the draw, snapping it back to their defense. There is no time to dwell on the loss—I’m off and speeding across the ice in an instant. My legs burn as I dig in, chasing the play. Every inch of ice is contested, every second critical. I hear Tyson yelling from behind me, his voice booming. “Pressure them! Get there! Get there!”

Boston pushes up the ice, snapping passes back and forth, trying to mislead us. But we are ready. Mason rushes the Boston player into the boards, making the puck dance in between their skates. Finding it, he moves the puck to Anders, who scans the ice looking for an opening.

“Here!” I call, surging up the middle.

Anders doesn’t miss. His pass hits my stick, and I shift the puck, flying through the neutral zone.

Boston’s defense is on me instantly—two tanks, sticks outstretched, angling to cut me off.

“Let’s fucking go, boys. Let’s see how quick you are,” I talk to myself.

I evade left, then in one of my favourite moves, cut right hard. The gap opens for half a second, just enough for me to squeeze through. The goal is in sight, and I snap a quick wrist shot, aiming for the top corner.

The goalie reads it perfectly. His glove flashes out like a cobra, snaring the puck mid-flight.

“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, veering toward the boards as the puck bounces into the corner.

The play isn’t over. I can’t stop just because I missed the shot. Mason is in there, scrapping like his life depends on it. He battles off a Boston forward and sends the puck back to Tyson. I pivot toward the slot, once again looking for an opening.

Boston winds up, faking a slapshot, and my heart skips as the defense freezes. He passes to me instead, the puck landing on my blade like it was meant to be there.

I take my shot. The puck screams toward the net, only for the goalie to get a piece of it again. The rebound goes wide, and the crowd cheers at my miss. I feel the frustration gnawing at me, but I shove it down. We aren’t done.

“Keep it alive!” Coach Taylor shouts from the bench.

We bear down on them, wave after wave. Boston tries to clear, but Mason intercepts it, sacrificing his body to hold the zone. He takes the hit and somehow slaps the puck free. It slides toward me.

My body moves on instinct, spinning away from my defender as my skates dig into the ice. I pull the puck with me, every move fluid, deliberate.

Ten seconds left.

I cut toward the net, a Boston stick slashing at my legs. I stumble but keep my balance, bearing down. Another defender lunges, his stick swiping at the puck, but I spin just out of reach and shift.

It’s just me and the goalie now.

I see him twitch, his glove hand ready to snap up. I have to be perfect. Firing high, I aim for the top corner.

Time seems to slow as the puck leaves my stick. His glove shoots up—too late. The puck slams into the back of the net with aping, and the goal light lights up red.

The horn blares, and the world explodes.

I barely have time to process what happened before my teammates swarm me.

Their shouts ring in my ears as they pound my back and crush me in a group hug.

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