Page 94 of With the Assist

The whistle hasn’t blown yet. The puck is still live, but I don’t fucking care. I drop my shoulder and drive him into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. The impact thunders through my arms and skates.

He crumples, sliding down the wall with a grunt.

The ref’s arm goes up, but it’s worth it.

As I skate to the penalty box, he smirks at me, trying to play it off.

“Touchy,” he says.

I meet his eyes through the glass. “Keep your eyes off my fucking girlfriend.”

I spend my time in the sin bin, ignoring the jealousy coursing through me at the idea of anyone other than me eyeing up Wesley. She is gorgeous. Anyone with eyes notices, but I still didn’t like his tone.

Fuck.

I have no right to feel this way.

Luckily, we’re still leading when my time is up, Chicago failing to capitalize on my penalty.

The ice opens up in front of me right as the puck hits my stick. The crowd rises, and a familiar surge of adrenaline floods my veins. I angle in, pulling the puck out of reach of the trailing defender.

The goalie squares up, trying to read me, but he’s slow.

The puck hits the back of the net with a sound I’ll never get tired of.

4-0.

I don’t point this time, but I do look for her. She’s laughing, her head tilted back and eyes bright as Harper says something to her. Even in the midst of her conversation, her eyes lock on mine as if she felt me watching her.

Something settles in my chest that has nothing to do with the score.

Our coach taps shoulders with three minutes left, sending the third line and fourth line over the boards, letting the younger guys soak it in.

I lean forward on the bench, elbows on my knees, as sweat cools on my neck. The noise of the game fades enough for me to notice my breathing, the ache in my thighs, and the way my heart is still racing even though I’m done for the night.

Coach Rylan stops behind me, his voice low so only I can hear him.

“See me after.”

My chest feels too tight for a normal breath.

I nod, pretending it’s nothing, but my thoughts spiral immediately. Is it about the game? The position? The contract? I replay the last few weeks in my head. It’s been good. I’ve been good.

Better than I was a month ago.

The final horn sounds, and the crowd gives us a standing ovation. We line up for the handshake we don’t really want as Chicago players skate past with tight jaws and forced nods.

In the tunnel, it’s quieter. The adrenaline starts to ebb, replaced by a post-game buzz that makes everything feel a little exciting. As we peel off gear in the locker room, guys are still chirping, replaying goals and hits.

“Two tonight,” Liam says, clapping me on the back. “You’re unstoppable right now.”

I shrug, but I can’t wipe the smile off my face. My phone buzzes in my locker, probably my sister, considering she’s the only one who watches my games. Except for Wesley, she watches too, now. Somehow, without even trying, she is working her way onto the list of people where that kind of thing matters.

Coach catches my eye from across the room and jerks his head toward his office.

Here we go.

I grab my towel and head for the door, ready for whatever comes next.