Page 22 of Stick It
Rushing down the steps, there’s a grin on my face.
I might have just found my first college friend.
7
GRIFFIN
I firea puck hard off the boards, watching the rebound angle as it careens toward the crease. Sliding to meet it, I drop my glove over the puck and trap it against the ice.
Quick reset. Another puck. Another rebound.
The key is control. When the puck ricochets wide, I extend a pad to deflect it. When it rebounds into my space, I snap it up with my glove or block it with my stick. No wasted movement. No room for error.
Except my control keeps slipping…
She’shere.
Dylan Carter.
She slipped onto the ice not long after I did, her presence quiet but impossible to ignore. It’s been like this for over a week now. The same time, the same rink, the same silent coexistence. She doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t try to engage. She just goes about her business, and I go about mine.
That’s how I like it. Everyone on the team knows this is when I practice. They know better than to interrupt—or God forbid,joinme.
But clearly, Dylan Carter never got the memo…or tossed it in the trash, if she did.
And every time she shows up, my focus fractures.
It’sinfuriating.
Huffing under my breath, I steal a glance as I adjust my mask and shuffle back into position. She’s at the far end of the rink, just inside the blue line, practicing the same shot over and over. I’ve watched her miss that damn net at least a dozen times, and after each one, she skates after the puck, sets it up, and tries again.
Same angle.
Same motion.
Same outcome.
It’s starting to piss me off.
If she’d just… I shake my head, turning my back to her.
Not my problem, I remind myself.
Focusing on my own drills, I push off, skating toward the boards to collect my puck. I go through the motions again. Slap. Catch. Reset. Repeat.
It’s all muscle memory—anticipating rebounds and making the save before the puck even has a chance to breathe.
Still, far too soon, I find my attention waning. Shifting to the petite fireballstillmissing the net.
My teeth grind, my focus diverted enough that the next time I smack the puck into the boards, I don’t get the angle quite right. The puck goes wide, and not justextend the pad to deflect itwide.Widewide.
Now I’m really pissed off.
I tell myself to leave it. To let her figure it out—or not. It’s not my problem. I’ve never cared to help anyone else on the team.
Despite my internal protests, the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“You’re leaning too far back.”
