Page 169 of Jaded

My hands shake with adrenaline as I head back to the bench.

“Don’t let that get in your head,” Olli murmurs beside me, but I do, because who does this guy think he is, picking on a kid like Avery?

Another line change has us flying over the boards. Olli cuts in to snatch up a wayward puck, and I haul across the ice to get open as he flies over the blue line.

Me and him, him and me. Pressure from the D forces him back behind the net, so I swoop low along the boards to give him a pass. He sees me—

Someone grabs the back of my jersey, hauling me away. I whirl around to shove the guy off me.

It’s the Ice Out grunt. Picking on Avery. Again.

My gloves and stick hit the ice.

Whistles ricochet in the background—refs? Refs I don’t hear, because my vision’s tunneling down to me and him, the two of us with our fists lifted.

“You wanna go, kid?” he grunts.

He’s bigger than me, which is probably why he thinks I’m Avery. But I’d be willing to bet he hasn’t tangled in quite as many stupid fights as I have. “Bring it.”

He moves first, fist swinging. I duck smoothly aside, and my answering left cross doesn’t miss its mark. My knuckles crack his masked cheek. He stumbles.

“Nat.” Gloved hands circle my shoulders, spinning me, and I turn to shrug him off, but suddenly a helmet crushes against mine, and soft, dark eyes bore down on me. A soft, sweet-bitter scent invades my nose.

Forehead to forehead, Olli James stares me down. “Nat. I got you. Breathe for me, okay?”

I breathe. Like I have no other choice, like his command fucking compels me, like the word of Olli compels me, pulls me through the red of my rage.

I breathe. Strawberries. Coffee. I breathe.

I’m thinking of the last time I fought, the last time my knuckles bled, and we sat in the locker room, me and the ghost of my present, holding each other together while he taped me back up.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, his gloves on my shoulders, his forehead still against mine, sharing my breaths. “I’ve got you. Breathe.”

I fucking breathe.

I’m back on earth, back on the ice, breathing, struggling to remember even the shreds of my anger. I breathe.

“You ready to show them all how this game’s supposed to be played?” Olli murmurs.

So we do. And this time, when I’ve got the puck in front of the net, lining up for a shot, it’s Olli with me.

The goalie goes down, and I turn and fire a pass under the second D’s stick.

Olli finishes the play as the goalie dives.

The arena explodes.

“That was the sweetest fucking goal ever,” Holls says, mashing his glove into my chest.

“You’re making me look better than I deserve,” Olli pants around the mask.

“Never,” I reply.

“Now do it again!” Coach growls.

And we do. We’ve found our rhythm, Olli and I. We’re like machines, built only to skate, pass, score, win. We are of one mind, puck sliding back and forth across the ice between us to now and again slip past the goalie and find the back of the net.

But even here, together, Olli is the true talent behind the plays. I am but a complement to his artist’s prowess. The audience knows it, too. They scream his number every time he touches the puck, watch with bated breath as he crouches for the face-off. They roar for every perfect pass, every shot, every flick of his wrists, every smooth deke.

---