Page 303 of Face Off

Cade splits us into teams with all the fairness of a dictator arranging his own victory. Easton immediately argues about the line combinations. Rider informs both of them they’re unbearable, then steals the puck from Cade on the opening shift and buries it before our goalie finishes setting his feet.

The rink erupts.

“You’re wasting your fucking life,” one of the Devils yells as Rider circles behind the net.

Rider skates backward and lifts both hands. “I’m having a great time wasting it.”

“You could’ve gone pro,” Cade tells him when we line up again.

“I like semi-pro.” Rider settles over his stick while the official waits for everyone to stop talking. “It’s chill, and I prefer chill. I love living in Kimball Falls and writing music for people who actually like the spotlight.”

“You also like sleeping until noon,” Briggs says.

“That’s part of the creative process.”

“You wrote a chorus about an ass last week.”

“It was a beautiful ass and the paycheck was worth it.”

The puck drops before Briggs can answer, and the next twenty minutes become violent enough to shut everybody up.

We play hard because none of us understands another way to do it. Cade gets driven into the boards by one of the Inferno defensemen and comes out laughing like he isn’t getting married in a few hours. Easton controls the ice with the same vicious precision he brings to every game.

Briggs plays angrier than usual, challenging every shooter at the top of his crease and attacking each angle as though every puck is something personal. He tracks shots through traffic, smothers rebounds before anyone can reach them, and fights for every save as though exhaustion might silence whatever Lyric left inside him.

I know the strategy because I’ve used it for fifteen months.

The speed empties my head. My blades cut into the ice, my lungs burn, and my body takes over before thought can interfere. Every turn, collision, and shot reduces the world to angles and instinct. For a little while, there is no study, no treatment photograph, no mirror, and no woman standing in a hallway asking me how she can repair damage neither of us fully understands.

There is only the puck on my stick and an opening beside the goalie’s shoulder.

I take it.

The horn sounds after three periods nobody bothered keeping honest time for. Cade’s team claims victory despite the score being tied, Easton accuses him of corrupting the timekeeper, and Rider demands credit for four goals when he scored two.

“Still think semi-pro is enough?” Briggs asks him as we coast toward the bench.

Rider sprays him with ice. “Yes and for the record I still think professional hockey is exhausting.”

The other players begin clearing out once the photos and final insults are finished. We thank them for coming, promise to meet whoever is staying for the reception at the estate, and remain on the ice after the doors close behind the last group.

None of us appears eager to head back.

Briggs lines up pucks near the blue line while Easton takes the net without bothering to put the goalie’s equipment on. Cade and Rider collect rebounds, and I shoot until the clean snap of my stick meeting the puck becomes the only sound occupying my head.

“We should probably get dressed,” Cade says after I send another shot into the upper corner.

Rider checks the clock. “We have time.”

“We have exactly enough time to shower and make ourselves presentable,” Cade corrects. “If we sit in that groom’s suite for longer than the thirty minutes required for any man to get dressed to impress, we’ll start drinking. Bliss will realize Briggs didn’t get that eye during the game, then she’ll commit a felony before I can marry her.”

“True love,” Easton says, leaving the net to retrieve the puck.

“Unconditional and legally inconvenient.”

I drag the next puck into position, but my stick remains behind it.

“I’m leaving tonight.”