Page 77 of Jaded

Winners, surrounded by the shouts and cheers and vibrant support of a crowd that’s remembered what it is to love the light.

Well . . .

“Twenty-Three!” The people roar as we Dingoes race off the ice and into the hallway. “Forty-Seven! Twenty-Three! Forty-Seven!”

The shouts reverberate through the stands, echoing over our heads in a thudding chorus of stomps that seems to realign the beat of my own racing heart. Around me, the team’s laughing, smiling, riding that wave of the winning high.

But I feel myself slipping off the barrel. Slowing. Falling to the back of the line of skaters.

“The people demand answers,” Charlie mutters in my ear, and I realize he’s slowed alongside me. “They’re not gonna be happy if we just walk off.”

My stomach churns, souring the high of victory. He’s right, though. If I want to keep the people coming back, I’ve got to give them something to come back for.

“Or, we could give them more questions.” Suddenly, Nat’s beside us, and he’s clad in full hockey gear. He lifts one hand, revealing—are those black ski masks? “We don’t have to tell them who we are.”

My mouth drops in shock. Because if he changed, if he had the masks . . . “You planned this?”

“I didn’t know what to expect.” He shrugs, tosses a mask to Charlie. “But I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared.”

He knew I didn’t have a plan. He knew I was winging this whole night, flying by the seat of my pants, so he stepped up to fill in the gaps.

My throat feels suddenly too tight.

“I’m in too.” Devereaux slides up beside Charlie.

Everton appears beside him, then Skyler. “More the merrier.”

“What?” My mouth hangs open. They’re volunteering to don masks for me? In front of a damned crowd?

Nat shoves a mask into my hand. “Just do it, Olli.”

Without waiting to see if I obey, Nat tugs a mask over his head and races towards the ice. Charlie, Dev, and Everton follow—to an explosion of riotous cheering and screaming and catcalling.

Which leaves me fumbling for my own mask.

As one, the five of us take the ice.

“Masks off!” someone roars, and someone else echoes it. Another and another and another until the sweat prickling down my tattooed spine has nothing to do with the exertion of the skate.

We’re gonna have to unmask—

The door to the ice opens once more, and suddenly the entire team’s pouring back out, surrounding us in a sea of navy and cerulean.

Every single one of them wears some kind of face covering—bandanas, hoods, ski masks, even jerseys.

The crowd explodes all over again, even louder than before. Couple of people slam against the glass, someone else roars for a fight. More and more are simply cheering . . . Cheering. For us. For the Dingoes.

As one, we exit the ice.

Down the hall, back into the locker room. The quivery, shaky, tingling sort of high I feel is nothing like the previous wash of winning. This is . . . different. Strange. Foreign. Frightening.

“Good game.” Nat’s palm smacks against my shoulder pad, and I open my mouth to say something, but he’s already moving on to Dev behind me. “Good game, good game, good game . . .”

I sneak a glance his way—and our eyes lock for the briefest instant before he looks away.

I bite down my grin.

Nat vanishes from the locker room shortly after—obviously he has to go Zam the ice, Olli, duh—and I relax into the post-game chatter. We’re all laughing and grinning despite the exhaustion dragging down our muscles and bones, despite the sweat drenching our skin and pads and jerseys. ’Cause there really is nothing like a post-hockey high.

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