Page 42 of The Perfect Snipe

Stella and Mason won’t understand what casual is. And what if—

“Hartman! Are you even listening?” Coach's sharp voice snaps me back.

“Yeah, Coach. Got it.” But I don't because I have no fucking clue what he just said.

The second period starts, and the Ravens come out swinging. They're hitting harder, skating faster and five minutes in, they score. The arena erupts, the noise a physical force.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

My disappointment is short lived because Wyatt answers right back with a goal of his own, keeping our lead. I slap him on the shoulder as we pass one another during a line change. “Thanks for keeping us in this.”

He shoots me a wide smile. “Oh, I’m just getting started. Hoping to give us enough of a lead before I pound that piece of shit winger into the ground.”

“Virgin, what did I—”

He only smiles wider. “Just giving you the heads up, Sprinkles. That fucker is going down. And I’m not the only one he’s talking shit to.”

With a huff, I skate off, eyeing the bench. Roan is glaring—fucking glaring—at the Ravens’ bench.

Shit.

He’s never angry. Or at least he never shows it. Lately, he just seems lost. Maybe it would be good for him to take a go at someone, get out whatever he’s obviously burying down deep. But then again, the last thing we need is another penalty.

My shift goes well. We keep the puck in the offensive zone, taking lots of shots on net. Just nothing wants to go in. Part of it is how skilled the Ravens’ goalie is, and the other part . . . it's like the hockey gods just don’t want us to score.

The game continues that way all the way into the third. With a little more than two minutes left, Roan draws the attention of the winger who’s been harassing my teammates. But unlike Lund, Roan has a good head on his shoulders and takes whatever is being dished his way, drawing a penalty.

He nods as he passes. “Get ’em, Cap.”

With our power play line on the ice, we need to ensure we score. Not just to give ourselves a possible buffer to win, but also because we need the point if we want that wild card spot for playoffs.

“Let’s kick their asses.” Wyatt winks at me as he gets into position for the face-off.

“Always looking for a fight, huh, Clanton? Fuck, not sure why CPS hasn’t removed that kid from your care.” The Ravens’ winger sneers.

My fingers tighten around the butt end of my stick. “Keep running that mouth and you may lose a few more teeth.”

“Ah, what’re you, his Daddy now, Hartman?”

“You boys done yet?” The ref glares at us.

He drops the puck. We have possession and now it's a balance between running down the clock and scoring. And making sure these assholes don't score a shorthanded goal. My eyes are darting everywhere, tracking the puck, my teammates, the Ravens’ players.

Down in the corner, Wyatt ties the puck up with his skate, keeping it against the boards as the Ravens try to dig it loose. Luckily, Hudson’s able to sneak it away and we get into position, passing it around.

Time slows to a crawl when I gain possession again, thirty seconds left on the power play and forty-five left for the game. So, I fire off a shot, putting everything I have into it. The puck flies through the air, and for a heart-stopping moment, I think the goalie's got it.

But then the puck sneaks through, and the red light flashes.

Goal.

The arena goes silent for a split second before erupting in boos. But I don't hear them. All I can hear is the thundering of my own heart and the jubilant shouts of my teammates.

We hold on for the last few seconds and, just like that, the game's over. We've won.

In the locker room, the mood is a strange mix of relief and tension. Mykyta drops into the seat next to me, his usual grin plastered on his face. “Hell of a game, Cap. That last goal? Pure fucking poetry.”

I grunt in response, not in the mood for small talk. My mind's already racing ahead, thinking about our next game, our standings, the points we need to rack up.

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