Page 92 of Power Play
Ollie’s scrappy as hell, fast with his fists, but he’s up against a meathead who’s clearly been in more than a few brawls. They circle, breath steaming in the cold air, and then it’s on; punches flying, the crowd roaring as though it’s a title bout.
Ollie takes a hit to the chin but shrugs it off, and lands a solid one to the other guy’s jaw. The benches are on their feet, refs hovering but letting it go on just long enough to satisfy the bloodthirsty fans.
Another punch. Another. And then Ollie wrestles the guy down, shoving him to the ice with a grunt of effort.
The ref steps in, finally. Both players are sent to the box, five for fighting, but Ollie skates off with his helmet in hand and his head held high, a cut blooming on his cheek and a grin that saysworth it.
The crowd goes nuts. Our bench bangs sticks against the boards. Dylan yells something that sounds like “Atta boy!” and Ollie gives him a quick nod before sliding into the sin bin as if it’s a throne.
Kid might be young, but tonight? He’s proved he’s got teeth.
Midway through the third, I get my moment. The puck’s loose near centre ice and I scoop it up, cut wide past one defender, and fake out their captain with a spin move so stupidly flashy I hear the crowd lose their minds. Do I need to showboat? Absolutely not. Do I do it anyway because Sophie’s right there and I want her to see me in full chaos mode? Abso-fucking-lutely.
I don’t score, their goalie catches it on a desperation dive, but Sophie’s clapping as though I just reinvented hockey. So, it was still worth it.
It’s the final minute and we’re tied 2-2. Dylan crashes the net and shoves in a rebound off Jacko’s slapshot. The horn blares. Game over. The Raptors win.
We pile onto the ice, hugging and shouting, waving our sticks triumphantly in the air. It’s madness. The good kind. Jacko and Dylan begin a lap of honour, tossing pucks over the plexiglass into the waiting fans. One little girl is holding up a sign declaring her undying love for Jacko. She’s no older than eight but he beckons her over to the open gateway and poses for a selfie with her. I swear to God, I actually see the hearts flash in her eyes.
Back in the changing room, I peel off my gear, sweat-soaked and high on the win. Dylan’s in the stall next to me as usual, towel over his head, grinning like a maniac.
“That pass in the second? Filthy,” he says.
“That goal in the third? Clutch.”
We bump fists. The room is alive with noise, there’s music blasting, boots thudding against tile, and water spraying from showers. But when it starts to die down, and it’s just the two of us sitting there, catching our breath, I clear my throat.
“Hey,” I say. “Can I ask you something?”
Dylan glances up, towel now draped around his neck. “Shoot.”
I rub a hand over my jaw, suddenly all awkward energy and no idea how to say it cool. “Thinking about asking Sophie to move in.”
He blinks. “Move in? As in, together-together?”
“Yeah. I mean, it’s still kind of new, I know. But it doesn’tfeelnew. Feels right. Easy. Like she’s already half living at mine anyway. We’re either at her place or mine together.”
Dylan leans back on the bench, lips pressing into a line. “You serious about this?”
“Yeah. I’m not saying we pick out matching mugs tomorrow, but I wake up with her next to me and I don’t want that to change.”
He nods slowly. “I get it. Just take it slow. You rush something good and it can crack under the pressure.”
“I’m not trying to scare her off. Just want her to know it’s forever.”
Dylan gives me a look, one of those rare, honest ones. “Then tell her that. Just like that. No games.”
I nod, feeling the thump of it in my chest. “Yeah. Yeah, I will.”
We head out of the locker room, still buzzing from the win, but my mind’s already somewhere else. On a girl in the front row. On what comes next.
And this time, I reckon I’m ready.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
SOPHIE
It’s midweek, mid-evening, and my brain is mush. I’ve spent the whole day wrangling graphic layouts for a children’s health campaign, fighting with fonts, and trying not to snap a pencil clean in half when Linda from Comms insisted for the fourth time that Comic Sans is “fun.” I love my job. I really do. But some days, it tests me like I’m on a sadistic reality show.
