Page 27 of Penalty Box
I turned and found Carter standing there with a handful of Gatorade bottles, wearing a shit-eating grin.
“Pretty bold of you,” he said, “hard launching in the middle of a coffee shop like that.”
I wasn’t in the mood, nor did I have the time.
“Get lost, Carter.”
He held up his hands in surrender. “No hard feelings, man. I get it. You’re new, and she’s hot. But come on… it’s kinda on the nose, don’t you think?”
I ran back the way I’d come, ignoring his last jab telling me to play my game, not the help. My jaw ached with how much I was biting back all I wanted to say. To Grayson, Coach, everyone.
I checked my phone again. Still no response.
No texts. No call. Nothing but the ghost of her hand in mine, and the warmth of her laugh lingering in my ears.
I headed back toward the tunnel, the sounds of the crowd swelling just past the exit, knowing I had a job to do even if my head wasn’t in it.
Even if my heart was somewhere else entirely.
The first period was all noise.
The crowd, the announcers, the scrape of blades on ice. The roar of the boards rattling behind me. None of it touched the knot in my chest. Not Grayson’s cold shoulder on the bench, orCoach’s clipped calls. Not even the tight rotations with the third line. It was like skating through sludge.
But I forced myself to move.
Shift after shift, I burned through the frustration, my lungs working overtime, legs pumping hard enough to drown out the voice in my head. The one that kept asking why she wasn’t there. Why she wasn’t watching. And why it suddenly mattered so damn much.
Midway through the second, Denver—our opponent tonight—took a penalty. Grayson and the first PK unit rolled out like clockwork.
Coach tapped my shoulder. “Next kill, you’re in.”
“Me?”
His look saiddon’t make me regret it,and he went back to watching the game.
Two minutes later, I was on the ice, down a man and chasing a loose puck like my life depended on it. Which, maybe it did.
I read the breakout, intercepted a lazy pass at center ice, and took off. It was just me and the goalie, the whole crowd on their feet. I didn’t think. Didn’t panic. I just went for it. Stick-handling low, baiting left, then roofing it glove-side.
Goal.
The horn went off, and I coasted behind the net, arms raised, every muscle in my body screaming with the rush of it. The guys slammed into me at the bench, shouting and pounding on my helmet. Even Grayson gave me a sharp, approving nod. And Coach… Coach didn’t smile, but he muttered, “Nice job, Calder,” and moved on.
That single goal didn’t erase the drama, but it bought me a sliver of space.
Late in the third, with the Surge clinging to our one-goal lead and the Avalanche pressing hard, I dropped into the slot to cover their top winger. He was big, fast, and angry. The kind of guy who hit like a wrecking ball and never missed an opening.
I saw the pass coming just in time to get between him and the puck. What Ididn’tsee was his shoulder.
It came high and fast, slamming into my ribs just under the padding. I hit the ice with a thud, my breath punched out of me like air from a collapsing tent. Everything hurt, but I got up quickly. Wheezing, swearing, gritting my teeth, I stayed on the ice until the whistle blew and the Surge had cleared the zone.
We’d held on for the win. 3-2.
I limped off the ice to the roar of the home crowd, trying to pretend it didn’t feel like someone had taken a baseball bat to my side. Guys slapped my helmet, some grinned at me like I was the comeback story of the night. I was halfway to the showers when I heard Coach call my name.
“Calder. My office. Now.”
Shit.
