Page 168 of Jaded

Olli and I skate side by side, from the blue line to the center face-off dot, where the ref stands with the puck. My heart thuds a steady rhythm against my ribs as I crouch down on the right side. On Olli’s other side, Charlie’s skating left wing; he tilts his head towards me in acknowledgement.

Olli flexes into position in the middle, head to head with the opposing center—Devereaux, I think. The way Olli moves, so soft and silent, I can’t help but think of him as a predator. A panther, poised for action.

Focus. Determination. That’s what will win us this game.

Wanting it fucking more.

The puck drops in slow motion.

The music cuts out as it tumbles from the ref’s hands, but Olli’s moving long before that. He beats Dev to the drop, snaps the puck back towards our right defenseman.

I’m moving too.

So when our D lifts his head, looking for an open pass, I’m ready. Puck to tape, I catch the pass without breaking stride. And when Olli cuts hard cross-ice, I’m expecting that too.

“Tay!” he yells, but he doesn’t need to because I’m already on the same page. My pass hits his stick half a second before he crosses the blue line. He’s moving so fast, he barely has to deke before he’s around that first opposing defenseman.

I fly up alongside him. One quick flick of his hands has the second defenseman looking the wrong way and the puck on my stick this time. I fake the pass, fire back, and Olli’s landing the one-timer deep in the back corner of the net.

The crowd explodes. Music thunders from the speakers.

We’re less than twenty seconds into the game.

“Yeahhh boi!” Holls crashes into my back, wrapping his arms around my pads, and I’m grinning. Olli’s grinning. The rest of our line—grinning behind their masks as we hop onto the bench.

The play starts up, music and crowd fall silent, and I settle in next to Olli to dump water on my face and watch the second and third lines tear up my carefully cut ice.

Then we’re back out.

It’s not like the first shift. We scrabble in the neutral zone. Pass-pass—and Dev swoops in to intercept. He’s playing good—hands smooth, feet smooth, head up. But there’s one thing he doesn’t have.

Olli shoots across the ice to Dev’s side. His body connects, the puck swings loose—and I swoop in to snatch it up.

Breath tears at my lungs, and my legs burn. In an instant, a defenseman’s on me, his shoulder ramming mine to throw me off course—“Yo, Seventeen. Not so fast this time,eh?”

The heavy body collides with mine, slamming me into the boards with a resounding smash, but I bounce the puck up the boards towards Charlie.

“Better run if you’re gonna catch that.” I nudge the D off and beeline for the bench. Leaving the defenseman—some Ice Out grunt who thought he was tangling with Avery—flat-footed in the neutral zone.

The next three shifts go the same. Back-and-forth battles that lead to a handful of paltry shots on net from both sides.

“What happened to all your energy?” Coach demands as we pile onto the bench after our third unsuccessful shift.

“They got half the Dingoes on their team,” Olli says through panted breaths. “They’re reading us.”

“Then don’t be so fucking predictable.”

At which point, a masked opponent hops the boards to snatch up a breakaway. A quick flick of his hands and the puck’s in the net, and our whole bench starts swearing.

We’re back out. Crouching for another face off. Olli wins back to the defense, and our D sends it forward to Holls on the left wing. I cut in for the pass, head-man it forward to Olli as he soars over the blue line. He draws the opposing D in close, drops the puck back to the point.

I tear free of the player attempting to cover me, wide open for an instant, an instant our D sees. The puck sails across the ice to tap my tape, and the player I lost comes charging back.

One deft flick of my wrists and he’s miles behind, and I’m setting up for a shot—a shot I could take, maybe should take.

I hesitate a second too long, and someone shoves me hard. Nearly throws my feet out from under me with the force of his hit. I lose the puck, my balance, stumble to try to regain my footing.

“Nice job, Seventeen.” It’s the same grunt as before, and he’s gone before I can recover.

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