Page 119 of Offside Angle

Shane’s head snaps toward him from the crease. “What?!”

“There’s a minute forty left. Move!”

Elias whips around from the bench. “Coach, seriously?”

Damian points toward the ice without even looking at him. “Four forwards. Rivera and Viktor on the back end. Now.”

Shane is still muttering under his breath when he starts toward us, checking over his shoulder until he’s close enough to the bench for the change. The second he gets there, Elias jumps over the boards with Cole, Tyler, and Nico while Viktor and I stay out.

Six skaters against five.

Empty net behind us.

We manage to trap Vanguard in their zone almost immediately.

Cole rings one off the post. Elias gets a stick on a rebound that somehow stays out. Nico spins away from pressure and throws a pass through traffic that nearly finds Tyler at the back door, but Vanguard keeps collapsing into the middle, blocking everything they can and refusing to give us a clean lane.

The clock keeps bleeding.

Forty-five seconds.

Thirty-eight.

Then one of their defensemen reads a pass at the blue line and picks it clean.

Fuck.

He sends the puck the length of the ice toward our empty net.

Viktor turns after it, but neither of us is catching that.

The puck slides across the goal line then the horn blows.

4–2 Vanguard.

I slow down as I glide toward the bench, chest heaving. Elias is still out on the ice, staring up at the scoreboard. Cole is glaring at it so hard I’m surprised the numbers don’t catch fire. Viktor just skates past me and taps my shin with his stick, silent.

I look up at the board one more time.

We lost Game Two.

But last night I got fingered by a man, came harder than I have in my entire life, and only spiraled about it a little.

So, honestly… emotionally? Mixed results.

The second we step into the locker room, the energy crashes.

Elias rips his helmet off and hurls it into his stall so hard it bounces off the back wall with a loud metallic clang.

“This is fucking bullshit!” he whines, frustrated. He drops down onto the bench and buries his face in his hands for a second before looking back up at the room.

Damian, who had been quietly talking to one of the assistant coaches, turns around slowly. “Pup,” he says. “Look at me.”

Elias shakes his head. “No, because it’s just like last time, Cap!”

Damian doesn’t even flinch at the old nickname. “And last time,” he replies evenly, “you won the Cup.”

Elias opens his mouth, then closes it again, grumbling under his breath as he starts unlacing his skates with more force than necessary.