Page 26 of Power Shift

I nod and slip my glove back on as he gives me a quick up-and-down inspection. There’s nothing out of place. Iamfine.

“I’ve been hit far worse than that.”

“Are we all good?” Dash asks, joining us on his side of the centreline.

Standing a few inches taller than he does off the ice, our goalie watches us closely. From his net, he misses a lot of what we deal with, and I know that annoys him. The debriefs we have after every game have gotten longer in length this season.

I offer a half-smile and tap Landon behind the knees with my stick. “Yeah, we’re good.”

There’s no pretending Landon isn’t pissed beyond belief as we set up for a faceoff by our net, now down a man. Our penalty kill isn’t anything to write home about, and I zone in, knowing that we’re one wrong move away from losing our single-goal lead.

Landon wins the next faceoff. He flicks the puck back to where one of our other two best defensemen, Marleau, waits. I avoid the shoulder coming my way and take off after Marleau when he starts down the ice. He’s blocked near the centreline, narrowly avoiding keeping the puck before passing it back to me. The defenseman guarding me tries to swipe it, but I’m there too quickly, hiding it behind the blade of my stick.

I know pulling off the play I want is a long shot. Landon’s close, skating faster than he has in a long while. The two defensemen on the other team are on my ass, and one manages to jab his stick between my legs far enough to tap the puck before I adjust my hold and shift it further in front of me. Their goalie is hovering in front of the net, his knees bent as he stalks me.

The player at my back is gliding at pace with me, but I know if I go any faster, I’ll lose Landon. I won’t get the shot off myself. The goalie is too focused, skating back into the net and stretching out, waiting for my next move.

I see Landon from the corner of my eye, catching the way he taps his stick to the ice twice. The moment the player behind me makes another move for the puck, I shove my shoulder into his chest and send it flying across to Landon.

It should be a perfect tape-to-tape pass. The fans cheer in preparation for the inevitable Landon Montgomery snapshot. I keep moving, attempting to shake off the defenseman clinging to me. He’s heavy on my body, weighing me down as I shove at him, alarm building in my chest as Landon slows, stare vacant.

I notice Orlovsky barrelling toward Landon too late to warn him. The player behind me touches the puck while continuing to hold me, killing the play, and Landon slows his glides in preparation for the whistle. He’s completely unaware of the defenseman skating full throttle toward him.

A whistle blows nearby, and the guy hanging off me lets go immediately.Too late.

The ref’s call doesn’t stop the other player. In a blink, he’s lifting off his skates and jamming his right knee into Landon’s. My packmate goes flying onto his back, sliding down the ice toward the net as he clutches his knee. A frigid breeze trickles down my spine.

The ref comes around me with his hand still hanging in the air to signal a holding call. I’m already moving. Ronan’s voice carries from the box, his outrage threatening to crack the ice in half.

Another whistle blows three times. Landon groans, rolling onto his belly and then lifting himself onto his hands and knees. The position settles some of my nerves. If his knee was destroyed, he’d be staying on his back.

I drop to a crouch and look at his face. The sight of him trapping a growl between clenched teeth is startlingly reassuring.

“Medic?” I ask.

“No fucking medic. Not for me.”

“Don’t. Not today. You’re not in your head.”

A linesman stands above us and says, “Do we need a medic here?”

Dash smacks his stick against the ice by his net, too far to say anything without getting in trouble. I didn’t notice Orlovsky being guided off the ice, but there’s no sign of him now. It’s a good thing he’s gone before Landon got back on his feet.

“Montgomery folded! A blind man could see that was embellished,” Hawthorne guffaws, skating close enough to draw another linesman.

I check myself before he’s laid out on the ice beside Landon. My pack leader pushes to his feet. His hiss has me clutching at his arm, helping him up. The venom in his stare is terrifying, and when he focuses on Hawthorne, there’s a break in the opposing captain’s tough façade.

They’re both alphas, but he’s no match for Landon. Very few alphas are, and it’s the reason he’s discouraged from fighting in the league.

I wish I’d seen this intense focus in his eyes minutes ago. Instead, there was only a ghostly absence that still has me in knots. It’s too similar to the way he’s been acting for days now, like he’s only half himself.

Something has happened, and I need to figure out what.

“Everyone needs to take a step back. We’re all good here,” I say, playing peacekeeper.

The linesman tips his chin in agreement and makes a show of separating Landon and Hawthorne.

Hawthorne scoffs, turning his nose up at us. “This is bullshit.”

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