Page 24 of Stick It
And I hate it.
Finally, I nod and skate to the edge of the rink, ready to leave.
“Griffin,” she calls after me.
I pause, glancing over my shoulder.
“Thanks.”
I hold her gaze for a beat, then grunt a quiet acknowledgementbefore stepping off the ice. The gate clangs shut behind me, the sound echoing in the empty space.
I tell myself it means nothing. Just a moment. Just hockey. But as I step into the cold air outside, her laughter and energy still linger in the back of my mind.
8
ETHAN
Every one ofmy senses is on alert. I’m aware of the position of every single player on this ice—teammate and opponent—as I set up the play.
I see Monroe—a rookie center—coming from a mile away, and before he can make his move, I knock the puck sideways. It glides smoothly along the ice before Jax intercepts the pass, skating backward with steady control as he waits for his opening.
Reed moves into position on the left, ready for the pass. It’s a golden moment of opportunity. I can already taste the sweetness of the win on the tip of my tongue. This might be a game between teammates to test our abilities and see how we work together on the ice, but it may as well be the Stanley Cup Finals. Doesn’t matter how small or insignificant the game; if you aren’t going to give it a hundred and ten percent, why even bother getting on the ice?
I expect the absolute best from myself—andmy team. No less will do. Give it your all or get the fuck off my ice.
This is a play we’ve practiced hundreds of times. With lightning-quick movements, Jax passes the puck back to me. Iimmediately send it on to Reed. All he has to do is pick it up, shield it from Dylan, and keep moving.
I’m pushing toward the net before the puck even meets his stick.
Except his timing is off. His stick catches the puck awkwardly, and it bounces loose.
God fucking dammit.
Like an eagle swooping in for the kill, Dylan snatches it up. She cuts past Reed with surgical precision. There’s no hesitation. No adjusting. She’s away, skating hard down the ice.
I tear after her. My legs burn as I push myself to go faster, but it’s like she’s got a turbo engine strapped to her feet, and she knows exactly where she’s going.
Finn is waiting on the right. Why the hell isn’t someone covering him? Dylan passes to him in stride, and he doesn’t waste the opportunity. His shot rockets past our goalie and slams into the back of the net.
The whistle blows.
“Hell yeah!” Finn cheers, skating past me with a smirk he does fuck all to hide. His hand is raised for a high five as he approaches Dylan, but at the last second, realization dawns. The smile slides off his face. At the same time, his hand drops to his side, and he does a one-eighty, skating away from her, before moving to celebrate the win with some of the others on the team.
However, my gaze remains focused on her. On how her eyes lit up with delight as Finn approached…and how they dimmed in disappointment when he changed course. A tightness forms in my chest, and I force myself to turn away.
It’s for the best. Laying down the law of ignoring her is the best way to appease everyone—at least until the roster is announced. After that…fuck, it’s going to be a shitshow. One I haven’t found a solution to. I might have told Dylan I’d cross that bridge when we got there, but the truth is, I spend every waking moment trying to figure out how I’m going to stop the team from imploding when Coach inevitably hands her a spot. One I can begrudgingly admit she will have earned, even if it does completely fuck with the team and my ability to captain.
Only two more days until shit hits the fan.
Feeling the weight of responsibility pressing down on me, I skate back to the bench. Even though my expression is neutral, inside, I’m fuming over our loss. Ihatelosing. Especially when I know we had it in the bag. Doesn’t matter that it was a meaningless scrimmage.
Reed skates in behind me, at I turn to confront him. “What was that?”
His brows dip low over his eyes. “Fucking bitch tripped me.”
My gaze narrows on him before I shake my head.
Before I can call bullshit, though, Griffin beats me to it. “That was no trip,” he states evenly, leaning against his stick and staring Reed down. “You lost the puck all on your own.”
