Page 28 of My Pucked Up Enemy

But it’s changing.

***

“Let’s take their dignity and their two points,” James mutters beside me as we get on the ice. “I’m done playing nice.”

Second period starts like a shot of adrenaline to the chest. The crowd’s on their feet before the puck even drops, and I’m already crouched low, eyes locked in. No time to think. Just react.

A breakaway unfolds like a nightmare—fast, clean, brutal. Their center skates in solo, stick twitching with confidence. I track him hard, pulse steady, breath slow.Trust. React. Don’t chase the play.Nina’s voice, again. It’s annoying how often she’s in my head now.

He fakes left, fires right. I dive. Glove out.

SNAG.

The puck hits my glove and sticks. The crowd erupts. I pop up like I meant to do it, all casual. But inside my heart’s jackhammering.

James skates by, slapping my pads. “Look at you, Zen master! Did the puffer vest give you wings or what?”

“I’m powered by kale smoothies and spite,” I mutter.

We reset. They press again. One sneaks through the top corner, bar down. Unstoppable. I don’t even flinch. It was a perfect shot, and I know it wasn’t on me.

By the end of the second, we’re up 3–2. Connor snipes one after a filthy assist from James who draw two defenders, and still manages to float the puck over like he had eyes in the back of his helmet.

Right after, Parker digs the puck out of the corner, gets absolutely wrecked by a check that makes the boards quake, but somehow still centers it with one knee on the ice. It bounces off a skate, ricochets, and lands right on his stick again. He taps it in like it was drawn up that way.

“Parker, you beautiful lunatic!” James yells, banging his stick against the boards.

“Next time, try not to get folded like a lawn chair first,” Ethan chirps, and Parker just grins, helmet tilted and all teeth.

We’re at another faceoff. Sweat dripping. Breaths short. But for the first time in a while, I hear it—loud, clear communication on the ice. Ethan calls out screens. Connor shouts line shifts. James is directing traffic like he owns the joint.

We’re not just reacting. We’re talking. We’re synced.

Third period is an all-out war. High-speed hits. Slashes behind the refs’ backs. Gloves clenched. Every breath is a risk.

I’m reading every play like I’ve got a cheat code. Ethan eats a hit to clear the puck. Connor draws a penalty. James chirps the other team into orbit.

“Hey, number 14, your Tinder profile says ‘athletic,’ but this is giving off real ‘JV benchwarmer’ energy.”

Their guy snarls. Coach yells for a line change. Parker hobbles to the bench, grinning through the pain.

James catches my eye from center ice. “Visualizethis,Chadwick!” Then he drops a no-look pass to Connor, who buries it.

I almost laugh. Almost.

The last five minutes are chaos. They throw everything at me—screens, deflections, rebounds. One bounces off a skate, heads glove-side.

I launch. Full stretch. Glove out.

Caught.

Whistle. The bench explodes.

The final horn blows. 4–2. We win.

***

The locker room is bedlam. Music blasts. Towels fly like confetti. Someone cracks open sparkling water like it’s champagne.

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