Page 107 of Caught from Behind

Then he shakes his head, eyes flicking behind us, drifting down the hall that leads to the locker room like he’s doing some searching of his own.

I have a feeling I know precisely who he’s looking for.

And whose walls he has made absolutely no progress in breaching.

“We grew up in the same house, asshole,” he says and skates away before I can ask what he means—or ask after a certain redhead who’s extremely good at not seeing him.

I follow to the face-off circle, line up to the side and slightly behind the dot, ready to pass it back to our D when Lake wins the draw like he always does.

The whistle blows.

The ref drops the puck.

Lake wins it.

I go to make the drop pass, but I see the flash of white out of the corner of my eye. Not the blue and green with a touch of white jerseys we wear on home ice, but a full arm of white, the winger on the other team closing with explosive speed and ready to pick off the pass.

Yeah, our goalie won’t appreciate a breakaway this late in the game, with us up a goal and the win within sight.

I halt my movement in a flash, flick the puck back to Lake, who’s strong as shit, annoying as fuck to play against, and always ready to receive a pass.

He corrals the puck, wins the battle with the other center, skating to the corner to free up some space for us to make a play.

You’re welcome, Willie, I think to our goalie, shoving off the defenseman guarding me and cutting hard to the net, watching Lake as he skates behind the goal, tracking Knox when he moves in and hangs close enough to split the coverage on us.

I grunt when I take a crosscheck to the back, do some shoving of my own in return, biting back a curse when the stick makes contact beneath my shoulder pads. Assholes always miss the parts that are actually protected.

But while I’m battling to keep position, to be an option, to screen the goalie—and to do all three of those things properly, I see our D cutting in.

Lake clocks him too.

I know that in our flash of eye contact as he skates out from behind the net, and then I’m moving before I even consciously think about it—breaking the hold the bastard defending me has on my stick, returning the crosscheck he gave me earlier, and then digging in and skating by the fucker, reaching my spot on this play we’ve practiced at least a hundred times…

Just as Lake saucers the pass to me.

I catch it out of mid-air, drag it to the far side of the ice as I deke around the defenseman who’s followed me.

Not trying anything fancy, just buying time, gathering focus, leaving space to find?—

Now.

Knox open.

They expected the pass to go back to our D.

It’s the obvious play.

But they forgot about the man with the dangerous hands who’s nearly impossible to corral.

I whip the puck to him, knowing Knox can handle a hard pass, knowing that it’ll have to be hard in order to make it to him at all.

But I don’t stand there and watch like a lump when the puck flies off my stick.

I move.

Sprinting toward the net, not stopping until I’m in the mix, until I’m fighting for position, until I’m contributing to the chaos the goalie and defense has to keep track of.

Knox fires off a shot.

---