Page 24 of Heart Check
“What?” He’s not calling me out for staring at Harper, is he? I’m sorry, she’s annoying as hell, but a guy’s only human—
“Scout, three rows up.”
My breath stops, and I follow his gaze. This time it snags on a guy in a baseball cap who looks vaguely familiar. Did he come to last year’s games?
“One of Red’s friends. He must’ve lined him up for you before he got canned.”
Noah skates off to finish his warm-up as if he hadn’t just changed the trajectory of my entire night, and I’m left staring. I tear my gaze away before it gets weird, struggling to control my racing heart.Thank you, Red.I send up a fervent plea to whatever hockey gods are watching over us today, praying for a game that will put me on the map.
I barely have time to notice the sharp smell of the ice and the cheers of the crowd before the game starts and I’m sucked into that deep flow that I only ever reach while playing hockey.
At first, I think the hockey gods might actually be on my side. Coach Dan settled on Alex, Noah, and me on the first line today, and Alex and I make a pretty good team. We know each other well enough by now that I have a sixth sense for where he’ll be on the ice, and he grins whenever I pass to him. He even gets a few solid shots on the goal, and after one of them, I swoop in despite the traffic and tip the puck right in. Alex shouts with pride, and my chest glows. That’s my guy, killing it in his first varsity game.
The team mobs us for the celly, and nothing feels quite as good as being surrounded by your teammates, a warm huddle on the ice, cheering as one.
Except maybe looking up at the stands and seeing the fans going wild. I grin at how clearly my name rises above the din. My gaze flicks between the scout—bent over his phone,probably taking notes—and Harper, who seems to be on her feet against her will.
Both are immensely satisfying.
I can’t help smiling around my mouth guard, even though no one can see it under my helmet. There’s something about the graceful, brutal speed of the game. You don’t have any time to think. Everything’s too fluid, too fast. Passing to yourself off the boards, wrapping it around, giving up possession in order to set up a better shot. Every conscious brain cell is playing a mental chess game against the other guys on the ice, and all my training is kicking in to keep me moving just a few plays ahead of my thoughts.
But the game swiftly goes downhill after that, and all my exhilaration turns to panic. Alex isn’t used to skating with Noah, and they fumble a pass and lose the puck, netting Washington their first goal and erasing our momentary lead. 1–1.
Dan calls a line change and the three of us are back on the bench. I gulp down water like it’s air, and it overflows my mouth. I spit out the extra, and only then am I able to finally take in a full, deep breath.
“Sorry, guys,” Alex sighs. His shoulders slump as he sinks into himself.
Noah leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, eyes intent on the action. He doesn’t make eye contact with Alex when he says, “Just make sure you move faster next time.”
I wince, struggling between sympathy and my own judgments. Yeah, Alex probably shouldn’t have been on that line, and we all know it. But I hate when he gets down on himself like this, and I know he’ll be beating himself up for days. “You did your best. Shake it off.”
But my eyes are on the ice too. We can’t afford to give up any more goals.
Dan puts Noah back in at center forward, and I pretend it doesn’t bother me. Even though Noah’s playingsloppily, overcompensating for his botched pass earlier by skating with maximum power and chaos, sending the puck ricocheting off the boards.
“Pass, Noah!” Dan bellows. He adjusts his glasses angrily on the bridge of his nose. “Run the play!”
But Noah seems intent on playing like he’s the only forward in the game, ignoring Brady and Louis. That only makes Washington’s defense mob him, and there’s no escape even for a skater as good as him. He throws his stick in frustration, snapping it in half at the neck.
I wince as he gets put in the box for a penalty. Washington scores quickly on the power play. 2–1.
“I can go back out, Coach,” I try. Theyneedme. “I’m rested—”
Dan just shakes his head. “Third line!” he calls, swapping them out for the tired players on the ice.
I let out a frustrated huff of air, glancing over my shoulder so I don’t do something rash like curse out my coach. A pair of green eyes are staring at us—at me?—but Harper looks away so quickly I can’t be sure I wasn’t imagining things.
Deep breaths, Dawson. Focus.
Ten minutes on the bench. Twenty. Thirty. Meanwhile, other guys take my place skating forward with Noah—Patrick, and Jordan, and Aaron—guys who rarely get much playing time. What the hell is Dandoing? Alex gets put in before I do, shooting me a quick, apologetic look as he jumps over the boards and onto the ice.
“Dawson! Play Dawson!” My name rings in my ears from the fans behind me, shouted over and over again. I hunch my shoulders and keep my gaze on the ice. Dan either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care how angry everyone’s getting. I’m not sure which is worse. Doesn’t he know how many goals I scored last season? What kind of strategy benches your best player for most of the game?!
My face gets hotter and hotter, anger and humiliation fueling each other.
It’s the third period before I get to play again. By then we’re down 5–1. Probably the worst game in the Hawks’ history. No one’s soaring high today.
I grit my teeth and give it my all, putting every ounce of energy into each movement and play, but it’s no good. I barely touch the puck, and I get checked within an inch of my life. Each time I get knocked to the ice, I wince—it’s easy to forget in practice, when your team’s taking it easy on you, how much it fuckinghurts, how abrasive that smooth surface is when you’re flying at speed and force.
