Page 185 of Make the Play

Another voice—Harris, probably—chimes in. “She wasn’t at morning skate either. Walton, you scare her off finally?”

That gets a few low laughs, and my whole body tenses.

Jake jumps in before I can even shift forward. “She’s got the flu,” he says smoothly. “Nasty one. Staying home.”

A couple of the guys nod, one or two wince. Reid makes a show of squirting hand sanitizer like he’s avoiding contagion.

Logan perks up, grinning like a dumbass. “Tell her we miss her. She’s the only reason I know what to say in interviews. And also, those muffin bribes last week? God-tier.”

I manage a nod, avoiding their eyes. “I’ll tell her.”

Coach Benson strides in with a clipboard and a look on his face that says he knows someone’s about to make his life harder. His eyes sweep the room slowly and inevitably land on me.

“You good to go, Walton?”

“Yeah.”

His eyes flick to the tape on my hand. “You sure?”

“Yup.”

He holds my stare for a second too long, but then he moves on. “Don’t make me regret it.”

***

The first period’s a blur, and my hands are twitchy. My legs are fine, but my focus is off. Every time I try to settle into a shift, my mind runs somewhere else—to her.

In my hoodie, on the couch, her mug on the table, her text on my screen.I’m home.

No, you’re not.

By second period, I’m wound so tight I’m basically vibrating. I take two penalties, one legit and one soft, and Ryan’s already shooting me looks from the bench.

Third shift in, someone elbows me on the way through a zone entry. Nothing serious, just enough to throw me off my line.

“Careful, Romeo,” the guy mutters under his breath. “Wouldn’t wanna mess up that pretty face. Heard your girl likes it.”

My entire body lights up. He doesn’t know what he just walked into.

“What did you just say?”

The guy blinks. “Chill, man. Just sayin’, you’ve got a type, right? High-maintenance, real polished. Probably fakes it.”

I drop gloves before I’ve even finished turning. My stick clatters against the boards, and then I’m on him, fists already flying. One to the jaw, two to the side of his helmet. He scrambles backward, grabs my jersey, but I don’t stop.

I see red.

Not metaphorically.Red.Red across my knuckles where the fresh skin splits open, red in the corners of my vision. Red flashing from the ref’s arm as the whistle screams loud and sharp.

“Jesus Christ, Walton!” someone yells.

Doesn’t matter.

We go down hard. I don’t feel the ice, just the impact of my fist connecting again and again until he finally shoves me off. The linesmen haul me back, both of them gripping me, one of them yelling something about misconduct, but I’m not hearing it.

I’m breathing too hard, chest heaving, blood pumping so fast I feel drunk on it.

“Five for fighting,” the ref snaps. “And you’re out.”

---