Page 42 of Checking Mr. Wrong
I’m focused, but not so focused I can’t steal a glance up at Mabel again. She’s there, eyes locked on the ice, probably trying to act cool, but even from here I can tell she’s biting her lip.
The puck finds its way to me, sliding across the ice like it’s got a mind of its own. I take control, weaving past defenders like I’m dancing through traffic, except with way more bruises involved. The crowd’s noise cranks up, it’s like they can feel something big about to happen, like the entire arena is holding its breath.
Then, right in front of the net, time slows. I see the goalie, eyes narrowing like he’s ready to swallow the puck whole. But I’ve got a secret move: a slick fake to the left, a snap shot to the right, and the puck sails past his glove with a satisfyingthwackagainst the back of the net.
Boom. Goal.
The place erupts like I just set off fireworks on ice. Fans are jumping, screaming, waving flags—probably some poor kid’shat flying through the air. I skate wide, arms raised like a rock star soaking in the spotlight, heart pounding like a drum solo. First goal scored for the newly minted Ice Breakers has been made by me…and it feels good.
And yeah, somewhere in that madness, I catch Mabel’s eye. She’s grinning now, no pretending. That’s what I’ve been waiting for. I may be the guy on the ice, but she’s the only goal I care about making.
The roar hasn’t even started to fade when I carve my way back across the ice, aiming straight for Mabel like a kid desperate to show off a new trick. I hit the boards near her, dropping into a quick, smooth bow. Then I point at her, grinning wide enough to split my helmet in half. She tries to play it cool again, but I catch that flash of “okay, you’re ridiculous” in her eyes.
No time to bask and not the time to keep showing off either; I push off and dive right back into the game.
The other team’s forwards are swarming, trying to bury one past our goalie. So it’s up to me to step up, planting myself between the puck and the crease like a human fortress. They’re pushing hard, sticks and bodies slamming into me, trying to carve out an opening. But our goalie? Man, Frenchie’s a wall. I give him a mental fist bump every time he makes a ridiculous save because this guy’s making my job easier.
The puck breaks free from the chaos, and suddenly I’m back on the move. Dodging, weaving, trading shoves with defenders like we’re all auditioning for a cage fight on ice. The game’s a frenzy, each second packed with enough adrenaline to fuel a rocket. The crowd’s screams echo through the rink, but out here, it’s a battle—me, the puck, and whoever’s dumb enough to get in my way.
The ice gleams under the arena lights as we skate back out after intermission, muscles tight and minds sharp. The scoreboard’s staring us down at 2–0, but the way the game’s gone, you can feel the tension simmering like a volcano ready to blow. Everyone’s jacked. The fans are screaming like it’s the last period of the Stanley Cup finals.
We’re locked in, skating hard, sticks slashing, bodies slamming, and then Cade gets the puck. He’s got that look, the one that says he’s about to do something unforgettable, and I know him well enough by now that he will. He weaves past defenders like they’re standing still, eyes on the prize.
The clock’s winding down, and the crowd’s holding their breath. Cade lines up the shot, wind-up smooth as silk, and—boom! The puck rockets off his stick, slicing through the air like a missile.
Net bulges. Goal.
The place explodes. The puck slams into the net, and the arena erupts like a fireworks show on New Year’s Eve. I throw my hands up, yelling with the crowd, the adrenaline shooting through me like lightning.
3–0, Ice Breakers.
Clément was a brick wall tonight—zero pucks past him. Not a single one. The crowd’s loving it, and from somewhere in the stands, a woman’s voice rings out clear and loud: “Je t’aime, Frenchie!”
I can’t help but grin. I get Clément’s attention from across the rink and pump a fist in the air, and he does the same, mimicking my movement. That guy has to be officially the player of the game.
I glance up just in time to catch Mabel as she leaps to her feet, cheering and jumping like she just won the lottery. She points right at me, that cheeky spark in her eyes as if she’s daring me to show off again…
I spin into a full circle on the ice, arms wide, grinning like a goofball who just nailed the spotlight. The fans love it. I love it. And I’m thinking, in her cranky not-so-secret way, Mabel must love it, too. Maybe just a little.
I drop back into formation with the guys, the energy crackling between us like a live wire. We’re newly minted teammates, becoming friends, but most of all, at the end of the day, we are Ice Breakers. And we’re just getting started.
I come out of the huddle and lock eyes with Mabel once more. She’s standing by her seat with that cautious smile that’s been sneaking out more often lately. She cheered for me tonight. Cheered like she meant it.
The memory of her lips on mine, and her body in my arms as I held her, hits me like a body check, and suddenly, the game isn’t what I want to win anymore.
I want her.
And I have no idea how to get there—but I have to try.
CHAPTER 15
MABEL
“Wouldyou please put down your phone and help me get this booth ready? I swear these pinecones aren’t going to organize themselves.”
I peek over the rim of my sunglasses at my mother, who is currently shooting me a look that would make a grown man cry. Fair enough—she’s got a point. She asked me to help her set up for Maple Fest today, and so far, my contribution has been limited to standing here, scrolling TikTok, and avoiding manual labor.
“I’m helping,” I say weakly, holding up my phone like it’s evidence of productivity. It’s not. It’s loaded with a video of Asher dancing. Again. Viral, obviously, because apparently the internet can’t get enough of him. And honestly? Ever since the game, his homemade lasagna, and that kiss…well. Same.
