Page 87 of Offside Devil

He loses the puck for a second in a scrum, but he anticipates the Thunderstrokes’ pass and steals it right back.

Then he charges for the goal.

The Portland defenders are charging toward Carson, getting closer every second. They’ve got one of the biggest back lines in the league and they’ve walled off the goal, nearly six hundred pounds of burly defensemen between Deluth and the promised land, but that doesn’t do a damn thing to dim his confidence.

Zero shot he has any kind of angle to score, but he refuses to look for Plan B. His eyes stay locked on the net.

I haul ass to get in position. For all that his bravado is pissing me the hell off tonight, this could actually work out if he just does the right thing. With all eyes on the puck hog, no one is paying me the respect I deserve.

The last thing they think Carson is going to do is pass the puck to me. Which is exactly why Carson needs to.

“Come on,” I hiss, trying to spot the puck through the melee. “Come on.”

The clock is bleeding seconds. The buzzer is going to sound any moment now and Carson is still trying to play hero.

The crowd is roaring. I swear I hear someone behind me screaming for Carson to “Pass the fucking puck!” At that exact moment, Carson finds a gap between the defenders’ legs and…

I’ll be goddamned. He passed it.

The puck comes soaring over the ice to me.

The goalie follows the pass, shuffling to the right, but he isn’t fast enough. I wind up, I swing, and the puck soars into the top corner of the net just as the buzzer sounds.

Phoenix, 3. Portland, 2.

We win.

I win.

I have half a second to enjoy the sight of the stunned goalie before I’m swallowed by a sea of red and white. Nathan and Reeves both dive for my legs and hoist me on their shoulders.

I hold my stick above my head, pumping it in the air as the crowd cheers. Carson isn’t part of the celebrations. He’s drifting miserably towards the bench, a scowl etched deep on his face. If I was a better man, I’d shout his name and get him up here, too. He made the assist, grudgingly or not.

But he can go fuck himself.

I’m not a better man—but I’m still better than Carson fucking Deluth.

The party continues even once my feet are back on the ground. Fans thrust jerseys and posters they want signed at me as I make my way off the ice. My teammates clap me on the back while I give a few interviews, not mentioning Carson’s name even once.

In the locker room, Daniel is nowhere to be seen, but Davis Ray is standing on the bench chugging an energy drink. When he sees me, he spits it into the air like a defunct fountain and starts chanting, “MVP! MVP!”

“We got off the ice five minutes ago, Davis. How are you already drunk?” I call up to him.

He cackles. “I’m not drunk yet, but give me an hour. We’re all going out, yeah?”

Everyone cheers in full-throated affirmation, but I bump through the throngs and make my way to my locker.

Mira told me she’d send me a picture of Aiden wearing my jersey before every game. I haven’t had my phone all afternoon, but I’ve been thinking about it for hours. He thought I was a hero on the ice when I played like shit. What’s he going to think after my team carted me around on their shoulders?

I’m smiling as I chuck my supplies into the bottom of my locker and find my phone. There is a text from Mira, but it isn’t a photo of Aiden.

I read it and my smile falls.

I read it again and almost crush the phone in my grip.

Don’t forget I need you to come back here after the game. I have that date tonight.

Mira has a date.

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