Page 55 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

No space.

They were swarming.

He twisted, throwing his stick down just in time to deflect another shot, the impact reverberating up his arm. But before he could even process the save, the puck was dragged back again—lined up, ready to be fired.

No!

His instincts took over.

He lunged forward, throwing himself down, smothering the puck beneath him as bodies slammed into his back, sticks hacking at the ice beneath him, trying to pry it free. The force of his own momentum knocked the wind from his chest despite the layers of padding protecting him. He gritted his teeth, sucking in a sharp breath as he fought to keep the puck buried.

The whistle shrieked.

The weight lifted.

For a fraction of a second, the world paused, his pulse hammering in his skull.

Twenty more minutes of this.

I got this.

Then I can trade off for a minute with Lafreniére.

Maybe.

He was done playing nice.

And the next person who came at him was going down.

They won.

Holy cannoli.

They actually pulled it off.

Matthieu’s chest heaved as he stood there, bent slightly at the waist, gripping his stick so hard his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, his pulse still thundering in his ears. Every muscle in his body screamed in exhaustion, but it didn’t matter—not when the scoreboard flashed in their favor, not when the crowd roared like a tidal wave crashing through the arena.

Overtime. One point. A freak shot that had somehow—by sheer dumb luck or fate or whatever force ruled the universe—slipped right through the opposing goalie’s knees.

Matthieu almost pitied the guy.

Almost.

He knew that feeling. That gut-wrenching, bone-deep horror when you realize you’ve just cost your team the game. That second of suspended disbelief—the silent, stomach-plummetingoh no—before it detonates into a sickening‘are you kidding me?’ He’d been there before, standing in the crease, eyes locked on a puck that had found its way past him, pulse hammering as the buzzer sealed his failure.

Yeah, that was a hard one to swallow.

But not tonight.

Tonight, it was someone else’s burden to carry, and Matthieu couldn’t muster enough sympathy to care. His veins still ran hot, his anger from the brutal, dirty game simmering under his skin. He should’ve traded out with Lafreniére, let someone else take the last shift, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. The calls had been bad, the hits cheap, the tension thick enough to choke on. He needed this win, needed to burn off the wildfire raging inside him before it followed him home.

Before it touchedher.

Jeannie.

HisJeannie—all soft smiles, gentle touches, and the kind of warmth that could melt the ice beneath his skates. She waseverything goodin his world, and she deserved that same goodness in return.

As he skated off, his gaze darted through the swarm of bodies, past the jostling, grinning teammates slapping each other’s backs, past the roaring fans, until—there.

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