Page 81 of Penalty Box
Second period, we were up 2–1 when they sent in their bruiser line. Cheap hits, and late slashes were the name of the game. One of their guys jabbed me in my ribs after the whistle.
My vision tunneled. I shoved him back so hard his helmet twisted sideways.
“You wanna dance, little girl?” A rabid snarl curled his lips.
“Fuck off,” I growled back at him. I wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Not tonight.
I stripped the puck from him in the next play, slid it to Grayson, circled back like a phantom, then caught the return just inside the slot.
One second. Two. Wrist shot. The puck hit the net.
3–1, Surge.
The boards shook. I turned away before my teammates could reach me.
I didn’t let up in the third period. I killed penalties like a pro, pushing through the burn in my lungs right up to the final horn. Surge win, 4-2.
The way the guys carried on in the locker room after the game, it was like we’d won the Stanley Cup. They were slapping towels, and spraying water bottles like champagne. I tried to let them infect me, to lift me out of the relentless dark cloud I was in. But it didn’t work. There was no high, no rush, and it was like nothing I’d imagined it would be.
“Votes are in,” Hunter called everyone’s attention. He’d jumped up on a bench, cocky and shirtless. “Calder for Player’s Player. You killed it out there tonight.”
More cheers. Someone thumped a glove on my shoulder, and even Coach managed an approving nod when he walked by. Bobstuck his head in and signaled that they were ready. Another camera, another post-game quote to blast over social media.
I waved in vague acknowledgment, then leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. It was as if things ramped up a thousand degrees overnight, but I hadn’t yet caught up.
“This belongs to you.” Tucker shoved the game puck into my hand, and jogged off to shower.
I turned it over. Black rubber, a little scuffed. In the grand scheme of things… just a puck.
I stared at it, searching for something. Anything. But nothing came. There was no sense of pride bursting out of me, or adrenaline, or even just plain old excitement.
I played my heart out tonight, but there was no heart in it.
All I felt was a whole lot of nothing.
25
Cass
I was supposed to be getting a head start on my metallurgy paper. My books lay strewn over the coffee table, while my eyes stayed glued to the TV screen. I was watching Mason slide his arm around a blonde puck bunny with a dress that surely cut off circulation to all her major organs. Around them, cameras flashed like fireworks on the Fourth of July.
“Hate to break it to you, but you’re not even his type,” I muttered to no one.
The interview played out in front of me, all bright smiles and perfect soundbites. Mason looked good. Clean-cut and composed. His answers were sharp, confident. He’d been prepped, obviously, and I was sure the bimbo on his arm was Bob Trent’s doing.
Anything to get the fans swooning and keep them invested.
And talking about swooning— Mason wore a tailored suit that clung to his shoulders, and his hair had that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that seemed to be working overtime.
Bimbo Barbie curled closer, and he laughed at something she said. Chances were good that she was coached too. I’d been around this game long enough to know this was all for show. Butthat didn’t mean it didn’t sting, seeing the two of them all cozy like that.
I clicked the remote so hard it creaked in my hand, and my living room turned deathly quiet. It was just me again, and my failed attempt at getting an assignment in early.
My laptop mocked me with its blank document, and blinking cursor.
Screw it.
I grabbed my keys and headed out.
