Page 65 of The One Night Dash
The boys coast to thevisitor’s bench.
Giulietti hops the board, sweat already dripping, grinning like a maniac. “Meat grinder.”
Leo shakes his head, jaw tight. “Stay sharp. They want to drag us down into the mud.”
Smith smirks, still chirping as he flips his visor up. “Better be ready to bleed for it.”
Coach D claps once, eyes on us.
Time for our line.
I crouch on the right wing, skates biting the dot, blade tapping twice against the ice. Ritual. Always ritual. Rivera leans in at center, jaw locked, ready. Koa drops low on the left, hungry already. Killer and Faulker twitch at the blue line, itching to break out.
The puck falls.
Rivera wins it clean, draws back. Killer scoops and immediately dishes wide. My stick catches it, and I’m gone, legs churning, blades spitting ice.
The Diesel fans hammer the glass, shouting garbage, middle fingers up. They want me rattled. They won’t get it.
I chip the puck deep, chase it into the corner. Their defenseman slams into me, shoulder in my back, stick trying to pin mine, but I lower and drive, all weight and stubborn grit. One hard shove, and I’ve carved out a pocket of ice that’s mine. Puck’s free.
Koa bangs his stick at the far post—“here, here”—but I fake the pass, swing it behind me to Rivera, curling high. He snaps it right back, lightning-quick. Give-and-go. Perfect.
I cut across the crease, goalie sprawling to read me. And I’ve got it—the look. High glove side, wide open.
And then her words are in my head.
Make it count.
It hits me mid-stride, and I grin as I snap my wrist, puck sailing with more flourish than necessary.
Clang.
Crossbar. Straight up into the netting.
The arena explodes, Diesel fans howling as if they had put it in themselves.
I circle back, lungs burning, pulse hammering, grin still on my face.
Rivera claps me on the back. “Nice look.”
Koa smirks as he skates past. “Pretty.”
I bark out a laugh, shaking my head. Yeah, she’s already in my head.
And maybe that’s exactly where she belongs.
SEVENTEEN
NOELLE
The slidingdoorswhooshopen as I step out of the hotel lobby, cool air blowing the way it does in November on the East Coast. I tug my wool coat tighter around me, scanning the street for the glowing Uber symbol on my phone screen.
Instead, I spot Joel, leaning against the sleek black SUV, hands in his pockets, eyes steady on me.
Of course.
“Joel,” I sigh, walking toward him. “You don’t have to do this. Really. I called a car. Go home, spend time with your family.”
