Page 121 of The Pucking Date
The puck drops.
I explode off the line, shoulder past McGinty like he’s made of smoke. I don’t look at him. Don’t answer his chirps. Just get through the next shift.
The play flips. Titans rush. Their center makes a cross-zone pass. McGinty catches it—barely—just as he crosses the blue line. Bad angle. Bad decision. Because I’m already there.
I don’t go high. Don’t go late. I just drive through him. Hip-to-hip. Textbook. But full force.
McGinty goes airborne, then hits the ice flat. The boards rattle. The crowd roars.
I skate on. No chirp. No smirk. No penalty. Just the metallic tang of blood and the sharp scrape of air I can’t seem to pull in clean.
Liam’s stick clacks behind me as he scoops the puck. “You good?”
“Perfect.”
But I’m not. Because the thing McGinty said, it’s still in my bones.
He doesn’t come back. Trainers pull him.
But Ken does. He cuts in fast on the boards during a dump-and-chase. Nothing dirty, just a little extra on the shoulder.
Then Dmitri’s there. Silent. Patient. Dangerous. He doesn’t throw a hit. Doesn’t even get in Ken’s way. He just leans in, murmurs something cold and low. No eye contact. No drama.
Just a line, drawn so sharp it doesn’t need to be repeated. Ken’s grin falters. He skates off on the next rotation, jaw tight. I don’t know what Dmitri said. But I know exactly what it meant.
Don’t fuck with the fire when you’re not the one burning.
The final whistle blows.The horn slices through the air like a blade—sharp, cold, final.
Titans take it, 3–2. Tight game. Too tight.
Sweat drips down my spine as I skate off, lungs still burning from a last-minute breakaway that didn’t convert.
I didn’t see her after second period. Didn’t look. But somehow, I felt it when she left. Like a thread pulled tight, then cut.
Dmitri peels off his gloves as he hits the tunnel, helmet swinging from one hand. No smile, no sulk, just the usual heavy silence of a man who’s played too many games to waste emotion on one loss.
I hang back, trailing the line. Let the noise fade. Let the crowd chant themselves out while I follow the edge of the boards, stick dangling loose from my hand.
Behind me, someone mutters, “Could’ve had ’em if O’Reilly hit that wraparound.”
I don’t turn. Let ’em talk.
In the locker room, the lights are too bright. Too white.
“Nice screen on that second goal,” Adam says, towelingoff his hair. “What were you doing, auditioning for Phantom of the Opera or just ghosting the puck again?”
“Only trying to keep up with your defense,” Liam fires back, grinning.
I strip in silence. Helmet. Gloves. Jersey. Pads.
Each move methodical, mechanical. Like muscle memory’s doing the work because I’m too damn hollow.
Across the room, Nate Russo slides off his chest protector and drops it with a heavy thunk. “Next time, you all wanna let them live in the crease, maybe I charge rent.”
It’s dry, gruff. Classic Nate. No venom. Just a reminder he was there. Holding the line.
“Tell that to our second line,” Dmitri says, deadpan.
