Page 91 of Crease Collision

Then… fuck me.

Jace is out of control, digging his stick into the ice trying to slow down. Losing his footing. Crashing into Oskar.

The thud. The screech.

Oskar doesn’t move.

Oh God. Please, Ozzy, be okay.

I want to rush down there and hold him. That would certainly set the arena on fire.

But what have we been doing for months now? Why shouldn’t I go?

“Kai, look!”

Theo’s voice cuts through the static in my head. He’s pointing toward the Fury’s crease.

Ozzy’s getting up on his own.

The trainer accompanies him back to the bench, where his teammates are tapping their sticks. My eyes sting, and everything blurs.

No. Not here.

Abso-fuckin-lutely not.

All at once, the world snaps back into focus. Officials are huddling off to the side. Ozzy’s talking to his coach. My teammates are looking at me.

A ref goes to center ice, and his voice echoes across the arena. “After video review, the call on the ice is no goal due to goaltender interference. New York number 34, Jace Castillo, has also been assessed a minor penalty for goaltender interference.”

My teammates start grumbling, but I ignore them. Before Ozzy went down, I’d have been cursing the refs too. Not now.

I go back to my crease, and as I settle between the posts, Oskar is skating back to his goal. I can’t keep a grin off my face when he settles in and looks at me.

Goddamn him for scaring me so much.

Thank God he’s okay.

I raise my stick and nod. He returns the salute, and even though we’re a rink apart and he has on his mask, I could swear he’s smiling.

The penalty gives them a one-man advantage, but our penalty kill is vicious. The Fury skate like they’re trying to get out of our way, but Ozzy’s as sharp as always. Stops two shots, a wrister and its rebound.

With ten seconds left on the power play, Noah feeds the puck to Nico. Instead of shooting, Nico fakes left, pulling a Fury D-man toward him. Then, almost without moving his stick, he slides a perfect pass to Theo.

Theo one-times it—a laser just inside the far post. Oskar gets a piece of it with his glove, but the puck is moving too fast. The goal horn sets off a fan explosion.

We’re in the lead, 3–2.

The boys have a big celly and skate by our bench. The crowd cheers even louder, but I stay quiet in my crease. I haven’t stopped watching Ozzy since the goal. He didn’t slam his stick or shout. There was only a slight shake of his head before he drank some water and turned back around.

But I see it—he’s hurting. I can’t salute him because everyone in the arena would think I was being an asshole, rubbing it in. I wish he could hear my thoughts.

Our lead holds through the end of the game, but my mind is chaotic as the guys come onto the ice to bump helmets with me. I’m happy we won but too shaken to celebrate.

I hear the whooping before I make it to our dressing room. The noise dies down when I clomp in, but that’s probably only me and my hyper-focus. In front of my stall, the first thing I do is take my phone from the top shelf and message Ozzy.

KAI: Are you okay?

KAI: I hope so.