Page 97 of Shattered

I close my eyes, desperate to recreate the symphony in my head, the song that’s become my lucky charm. But it slips away, vague as a dream when waking. Bexley’s face flickers, a snapshot of joy, his air guitar, the way he laughed when we were just us. I cling to those memories, hoping they’ll anchor me.

The opponent skates over, grinning. “Brayden Quake Anders,” he mutters, taunting me. I remain silent, tongue heavy with lead. I’ve researched Montgomery Nathans, analyzed his moves, but fear grips me.

“The Quake has nothing to say? Well, shit.”

“Shut the fuck up,” I grit out my eyes on the ice.

“I heard your teach was banging you up the ass in extra classes? I heard he’s big. I might have a go on it and see what the fuss is about. I mean, by looking at him you can tell he fucks like a pro. Does he make you call him Daddy?” He taunts and I want to unleash my fury, pummel my fists into his face. But I’m frozen, trapped in my own doubt.

And then it happens—the stomping, the clapping. The beat.

I tilt my head up, scanning the stadium. Devil Hawks fans stomp their feet, clap their hands, and erupt into “We Will Rock You.”

The collective voice reverberates, drowning out my fear. Bohdi stands by the players’ benches, grinning wide, singing like his life depends on it. My team joins in, Kal, Tray, Cope, Jennings, Coach—all of us, united by rhythm and purpose.

Sticks raised high, we put our everything into the song. Memories of Bexley flood my mind, his bright face, his laughter,our shared happiness. It’s like a rolling film tape, capturing our life together.

As the crowd reaches the final chorus, something shifts within me.

Quake steps onto the ice.

Nathans stares at me, fire burning in his eyes as I smirk at him. We both keep our heads down, facing the ice where the puck will drop, our sticks ready.

“He doesn’t make me call him Daddy, actually. It’s a bit tasteless,” I quip. The puck rises and Nathan’s shoulders go stiff.

“Although.” I smirk. “Your dad loved when I screamed ‘Fuck me daddy.’” I slide past, puck against my stick.

Rumors are great. Apparently, his mom caught his dad in bed with a man. I have to give myself an internal high five for that comment.

Flying up the rink, Kal streaks down the left, stick tapping for the pass. I pass it, threading the needle. As soon as it meets Kal’s stick, he wounds up, unleashing a slapshot that screams toward the top corner. Steel, their goalie, lunges, glove snapping shut. But Kal grins, a near miss, but a warning shot.

The puck hits the ice, Tray intercepts, weaving through defenders. His stick handling was skillful, the puck glued to his blade. He swings, mesmerizing, and then the puck meets my stick. I spin, eyes on the net. Steel tracks my eyes and then the puck. Desperation is etched on his face.

I fake a left, then whip the puck right. The net calls to the puck like a siren’s song. The crowd held its breath and then the buzzer goes off. My team mates swarm me with smiles and cheers.

The Frostbites keep pressing, and each time we sink the puck, they sink one after. It’s back and forth all the time. Cope and Becketts, our D-man, battles in the trenches. Nathans, their power forward, crashes the crease. Cope slams him into the boards, ribs rattling. Nathans snarls, but Cope grins, he’s ourvery own beast protecting his den. The puck echoes, chaos reigning. Cope clears it, eyes never leaving the play. Our team is moved around. Me, Kal, and Tray are all pulled off. Coach knows this is going to overtime. Our team fight with everything, Hawks score, Frostbite score, this goes on and before we know it, the whistle blows, overtime looms.

Devil Hawks: 6 Frostbite: 6

The rink throbs with desperation—an arena on the edge of eruption. Overtime—a sudden-death duel where heroes emerge, and hearts hang by a thread. The crowd’s roar swirls like a blizzard, encircling us, amplifying the stakes. Coach reunites the nightmare line, our secret weapon, for this decisive moment.

Back to the faceoff, Nathans bares his teeth. No snide remarks, no playful banter—just raw intensity. This is it the culmination of a year’s need. Will the Devil Hawks win? The puck ascends, and time stretches thin. In that breathless instant, I send a silent plea to Bexley.

Wish us luck, bro. We’re winning this for you.

The whistle pierces the tension, and the puck drops. Nathans’s stick clashes with mine—a furious blur of motion. He’s like a whippet, seizing the puck and streaking past me. My heart sinks, but there’s no room for hesitation. Hockey demands constant awareness. Cope and Becketts zone in on Nathans as he winds up for a slapshot. Becketts blocks it, and the crowd erupts.

Tray, our speed demon, takes possession and rockets up the right side. His legs churn like turbines. Two D-men close in on Tray, but he threads a lightning-quick pass to me. I move with urgency, legs burning, lungs screaming. We need this victory; it’s etched in our very bones.

I fake left, then right, before returning the puck to Tray. It’s back to me in a heartbeat. Against my stick, the puck glides as I pass it to Kal. He blurs past the D-man, eyes locked on the goal. The arena collectively holds its breath. Kal shoots—but Steele,their tough goalie, saves it with a pad. Tray slaps his stick against the ice in frustration. I skate over to him.

“We’ve got this,” I assure him, helmet to helmet. Determination fuels our veins as we reset.

The puck finds us again, and we know it’s time to end this. We need this victory like oxygen. The crack of sticks fills my ears as the puck dances between our nightmare line. The crowd roars, drawing us closer. I glimpse an opening, but Kal taps his stick—a signal. I see it—the gap, the chance.

Kal slides the puck to me, right in front of the goal as if I’m about to take the shot. I fake slapshot, and the last-minute slide left to Kal. The defense is too quick though and the D-men clash, sticks colliding, a riot of desperation with Kal. Kal flicks the puck up on his stick. We watch it spin and spin in the air as it comes back down, meeting Kal’s stick before he slams it toward the goal, aiming for that sliver of opportunity. It slips through one D-man’s legs, then another. The goalie’s pads loom, but Kal’s stick meets it again.

And then the buzzer blares.

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