Page 45 of Stick It
I dart across the blue line, catching a pass from Ethan. No way am I letting this one go. I take off like a bullet released from its chamber. My stick flexes as I slap the puck toward the net, but their goalie smothers it easily. The whistle blows.
Goddammit. My head falls back, and I groan to the rafters as I slowly circle back to the center ice for the face-off. We’re tied nil-nil with less than fifteen minutes left on the clock. Not a great start to the year.
I notice Dylan from the corner of my eye. She’s a few feet away, standing on Ethan’s other side, tapping the ice like she’s ready to go.
It’s weird seeing her there. Correction: it’s weirdnotseeing Reed there. It’s been the three of us since freshman year. It’s been me and Reed for even longer. I met him at peewee hockey camp when we were eleven, and for four weeks every summer, we’d dominate the ice, showing off whatever new tricks we’d learned that year.
Both of us talked about playing in college together, making it to the championships together, and eventually going pro—together.
Then, here comes Dylan, disturbing the status quo and changing everything we talked about doing.
My gaze flicks to the bench where Reed sits, geared up, stick fisted in his hand, and ready to go. His expression is one of pure concentration—and rage. There’s always rage there nowadays—not that I can blame him. I’d be pissed too.
I immediately feel bad because, no matter how much it sucks for my friend, Dylan has been doing a surprisingly good job of holding her own. Which hasn’t been easy. The Glaciers have been going after her like she’s some sort of punching bag, slamming her into the boards at every opportunity, crowding her with their sticks and elbows whenever she has the puck. It’s obvious to anyone watching that she’s their target, regardless of whether or not she has possession of the puck.
When I first saw how hard they were going for her, I expected her to ask Coach to switch her out, but I was wrong. She’s been holding her own like a pro. She doesn’t expect any of us to come to her aid, doesn’t flinch when an opponent shoves her, and doesn’t hesitate to go after the puck even when it’s in the thick of the scrum. She’s as fierce as any other Steelhawk on the ice.
“So, Blackstone took our sloppy seconds.” My head snaps in the direction of the Glaciers’ captain. Lucas Tremble grins like the asshole he is, leaning over his stick as he talks low enough that only the forwards can hear—Dylan included. “Guess it’s your turn to be bottom of the conference.”
The whistle blows, and I mentally cheer Ethan on as he wins the face-off. The puck comes loose, and I race for it.
The Glaciers swarm us, and it’s brutal. Every pass is contested, every shot blocked. And when Dylan makes anopening and gets the puck, it’s like a pack of wolves has descended on her. Three of them pin her against the boards, their sticks hacking at her like they’re trying to break her in half.
One of them wrestles the puck free and takes off.
Every instinct says chase him down, but something about leaving Dylan, still pinned to the glass, grates under my skin.
Catching my eye, her voice cuts through the noise. “Go, Finn!”
I grit my teeth—then go.
Still, unease twists my gut as I break down the ice. The way they’re ganging up on her is excessive, like they’re using her as a punching bag for their frustrations. She’s finally on an opposing team, and now they’re making sure she feels every bit of the frustration they’ve bottled for the past two years.
Fuck, are we going to feel the same way by the end of the season?
Will we resent her too?
When the games get harder, when the pressure mounts—will we turn on her like they have?
I want to believe we’re better than they are, but I’m not sure that we are.
By the time we rotate off the ice, we’re losing 1–0. Ethan slumps next to me on the bench, muttering under his breath.
“NSU’s not holding back tonight.”
“They’re out for blood,” I agree, spraying cold water from my bottle over my face.
I inadvertently spot Dylan sitting farther down the line, catching her breath. What snags my attention is the bright red on her chin, blood that has trickled from a split lip.
I hate myself for noticing, but more than that, I hate myself for the quick jolt of concern.
Ethan must see where my attention is as he mutters low for only me to hear, “They’re targeting her.”
I simply nod, forcing my gaze away from her and back on the ice where itshouldbe. I fist my stick in my gloved grip, taking my frustrations out on it.
Kyle would be devastated if he thought for one second I wasworriedabout her. She knew what she was signing up for when she joined the team. The rest of it isn’t my problem. My loyalties lie with my friend. My teammate who is currently on the ice kicking ass.
Reed flies toward the net like the hounds of hell are on his ass. “Go, Reed!” I call, getting pumped as he sets up for a goal.Fuck, yes!We need to start pulling ahead of these assholes.
