Page 72 of Cold as Ice

They’d dominated the whole period. They’d had two to one shots on goal.

And somehow, they were down. They werelosing.

It was worse because when they got into the locker room, Mal didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look at him. Elliott tried to stay focused. On task. Listening to Coach B map out some new formations they could try for the third period.

Tried to quiet his mind. Not let panic get the best of him.

They were a good third period team.

They could score again. Tie it up. Even find a third goal, so they’d win.

Elliott told himself he relished the challenge.

That he wanted it.

That hecravedit.

And as they took the ice again, for the last period, he believed it.

Evergreens hockey wasn’t about giving up when the situation was shit. It was about digging down, deep, and finding a new well of determination.

“We got this,” Elliott said to Mal as they got ready for the first faceoff.

Mal gave him a sharp nod, and Elliott took that to mean it wasgame on. Which he was one hundred and ten percent behind.

Mal didn’t usually let his emotions get the better of him. Even during a game, he tried to stay calm, methodical. Rely on all the preparation he’d done to be as ready for this challenge as possible.

But he was pissed.

Pissed that they kept pushing the Cyclones and pissed that it kept not working out.

He wanted this one—more than he usually did—and helikedwinning. Scratch that. Helovedwinning.

Not for any of those crazed, chest-thumping toxic masculinity reasons, but because it was the best way he could prove to himself—and to others—that he’d done what he’d set out to do, which was be the best and to live up to every bit of the potential he knew was inside of him.

The goals they’d given up at the end of the second pissed him off.

Made him emotional.

And when Elliott said, “We got this,” Mal felt the determination coalesce inside him.

This time when they took the ice, it wasn’t just Elliott pushing, but Mal, too. Harder than he normally did. Getting rougher. Skating faster. Playing fast and easy in a way that anyone withhalf a brain would tell him was a little too like Elliott Jones for his comfort.

But right now Mal didn’t give a fuck.

He took the puck around the back of the goal, one of the Cyclones’ defenders breathing down his fucking neck, his blades slicing through the ice as he made the turn.

A second before it happened, he got slammed into the boards, the defender trying to steal the puck, but he blocked him with his stick, once and then twice. Then a third time. They were battling it out now, and Mal was big, but this guy seemed even bigger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of something, trusted that he understood what—who—it was, and he flicked the puck out.

He’d been right.

Elliott grabbed it, and before anyone could react, sent it flying towards the goal. A great shot. Aperfectshot.

He couldn’t have timed it better, or shot it better, but the puck didn’t go in. It glanced off the very edge of someone’s skate. Mal didn’t even know, couldn’t get a clear glimpse of whose it was. It might have even been Ivan’s.

But it didn’t matter, because they missed the rebound and had to fight for control of the puck again.

Rinse and repeat. No time to cry over spilled milk—or missed shots, no matter how goddamn gorgeous they were.

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