Page 144 of Make the Play

Chase

The second the puck drops, I’m dialed the fuck in.

My legs are loose, stick steady in my grip, vision clear as hell. The ice is smooth beneath my blades, and the crowd’s nothing but a low roar in the back of my skull. White noise. Background bullshit.

I fly up the right side, skating hard to join the rush. Jake feeds it to Logan, who gains the line clean, then drops it back to me at the point without looking—a trust move. I drag it across the blue line, fake a shot, then thread a seam pass right through traffic to Eli on the doorstep, who buries it top shelf.

Bar down. Net ripper.

The horn blares, red light flares behind the net, and we mob the glass.

“Fuckin’ silkyyyy,” I yell, smacking Eli’s helmet. “That’s how we do it, baby!”

He grins. “Thought you were gonna snipe that one yourself.”

“Gotta let you old guys feel useful.”

Logan snorts behind us. “He’s cocky tonight.”

Damn right I am.

I skate back to the bench, adrenaline thrumming through my limbs. Coach Benson glances my way as I hop over the boards. His arms are crossed, mouth twitching like he’s trying real hard not to be amused.

Yeah, Benson. I see you.

Maybe it’s the post-road-trip legs. Maybe it’s the fact that I got laid so thoroughly this past weekend, I’m still sore in places I didn’t know could get sore. Or maybe it’s just that I’m playing like I’ve got something to prove.

Because I do.

The whole league’s been chirping ever since that damn sex tape dropped. Media calling me reckless, management side-eyeing every headline like I’m about to ruin the whole franchise with one dumb move.

But tonight, I’m reminding every single person in this barn exactly why I’m here.

I take my next shift at the start of the second. We win the draw clean in the offensive zone, and I crash low toward the net. Logan digs the puck out of the corner, sends it to the point, and Ryan fires a laser from the blue line.

The rebound kicks out to me near the bottom of the circle. I fake the slapshot, step around their winger, then snap it five-hole before the goalie can reset. He doesn’t even know it’s in until I’m already celebrating with a stick raise and a glove to my ear.

I glide past their bench, tapping the boards just loud enough for them to hear it over the ref’s whistle. “Tell your goalie to close his legs next time.”

A couple of them bark back, which is standard, and I give them a wink. Classic chirping bullshit. But my blood’s pumping, and everything feelsright. Sharp and on point.

By the time the third rolls around, I’ve got two apples and a goal to my name, and I’m still buzzing.

I take a hit along the boards, but bounce off it like it’s nothing, spinning out and keeping the puck magnetized to my stick. I dish it back to Logan at the blue line, then circle behind the net to reset.

And then I hear it—the unmistakable sound of a cross-check, hard and deliberate.

I whip my head around just in time to see one of their wingers slam Logan into the glass, late and dirty as hell. The ref blows the whistle, but it’s already too late. I see red.

By the time Logan’s peeling himself off the ice, I’m already skating in fast, cutting across the zone like a goddamn missile.

I drop my gloves before I even reach the bastard.

We square up at center ice, fists raised and crowd roaring in our ears. He’s taller, built like a cement truck, but I’m faster. I land the first shot clean to his cheekbone, and when he tries to throw a hook, I duck under it and catch him with a right that knocks him back a step.

He gets one in on my jaw, more of a glancing blow than anything, but I don’t flinch. Just reset my stance, wait for the opening, then drive my fist into his chin with a sharp uppercut that sends him sprawling.

The refs haul me off as the arena explodes, the glass shaking from the boys pounding it behind the bench.

---