Page 30 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

I fake left, cut right, and shoot—directly into the goalie's glove. A save so easy it's embarrassing.

"Fuck!" I slam my stick against the ice.

As I skate back to our zone, a Chicago player—Zach Mickelson, their star defenseman—skates past me with a smirk.

"Nice shot, Miles. My grandmother has better aim."

Something snaps inside me. All the frustration, insecurity, and anger I've been bottling up explodes. I drop my gloves and grab Mickelson by the jersey, throwing a wild punch that connects with his jaw.

The officials blow their whistles frantically as we grapple on the ice. I vaguely register my teammates trying to pull me off him, Kaleb's voice in my ear telling me to calm down. I'm beyond reason, beyond listening.

When they finally separate us, the penalty is announced: five minutes for fighting, game misconduct. I'm done for the night.

As I'm escorted off the ice and not even to the penalty box to boos from Chicago fans and shocked silence from our own, the reality of what I've done hits me. I've let my team down. In acritical game. All because I couldn't keep my personal shit in check.

In the locker room, I tear off my gear, throwing my gloves across the room in. I'm showered and halfway dressed when the final buzzer sounds. The door bangs open, and the team files in. We lost 3-1, Boston scoring on the power play after my penalty.

Kaleb storms directly toward me, still in full gear, eyes blazing. "What the actual fuck was that, Miles?"

"Back off, Jensen," I warn, not in the mood for a lecture.

"No, I won't back off. You cost us the game because you couldn't control your temper." He's in my face now, all six-foot-three of him. "We're fighting for playoff position, and you pull this childish bullshit?"

"It was one game," I mutter, though the excuse sounds weak even to my own ears.

"One game could be the difference between making playoffs and watching from home," Kaleb growls. "Whatever's going on with you, fix it. The team deserves better."

"The team deserves better," I echo sarcastically. "As if you've never had an off night, Viking."

"An off night is one thing. Deliberately throwing away a game because you're pissy about your love life is another." Kaleb's words hit too close to home, making me flinch.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I say, grabbing my bag.

"We all know, Dakota," Asher cuts in, his voice softer but no less serious. "We're your friends. We see you. Kaleb's right—you can't bring that energy to the ice. It hurts all of us."

The locker room has gone quiet, everyone watching our confrontation. I feel exposed, raw, like they can all see right through me to the mess underneath.

"Fine," I say, jaw clenched. "I'll fix it."

I push past them, nearly running into Coach in the hallway. He gives me a look that says we'll be having a very unpleasant conversation tomorrow, but he lets me pass without a word.

In my car, I sit with the engine running, hands gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles ache. This is Harmony's fault. No—that's not fair. It's my fault for letting her get to me. For caring too much. For breaking my own cardinal rule: never get attached.

The solution seems suddenly, blindingly clear. End it now, before it gets worse. Before I'm so invested that I can't function when she inevitably walks away. Cut my losses and get back to being Dakota Miles, the guy who doesn't need anyone.

I grab my phone, typing before I can talk myself out of it.

Me:We should end this. It's not working for me anymore. Take care, Harmony.

My thumb hovers over the send button for a long moment. Then I press it, watching the message deliver.

It's done. I've cut the cord. No more checking my phone. No more wondering if she's thinking about me. No more distractions on the ice.

So why does it feel like I've just made the biggest mistake of my life?

My phone sits heavy in my hand and the bright light of the screen illuminating the interior of my car. Three dots appear, then disappear. She's typing, then stopping. My heart pounds in my chest so hard I can hear it in my ears.

Then nothing. No response. Just read receipts staring back at me, confirming she's seen my message and chosen not to reply.

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