Page 111 of Major Penalty

My chest tightens. Rowan’s head jerks up as I catch his eye and give him a slight nod.

Coach never starts the three of us together unless we’re desperate or hunting blood. His eyes flick to me for a second, then away, like he’s afraid of what he might say if he looks too long. I can already feel the distance.

I keep my expression neutral, but my lungs feel like they’re collapsing in on themselves.

This isn’t a reward. It’s not a strategy. This is a test.

He saw me with my tongue down his daughter’s throat, pressing her against the wall. And now he wants to see how much of me is still his.

My heart is pounding like it’s trying to tear out of my chest and beg him,please, don’t hate me.

I deserve it, though, don’t I? I could’ve waited until the end of the game. I could’ve walked away without a kiss. But I didn’t because I needed her. Ialwaysneed her. And now…I don’t know if he’ll ever look at me the same.

I know how this works. I’ve lived this before. You get too close, you hope, you trust, and then they take it back. The warmth, the approval, the place you thought you finally fucking earned—all ripped away.

Coach will start cutting my shifts until I’m slowly forgotten. I can feel it in my bones. He’s about to turn me into a bench warmer out of spite. And what hurts most is knowing that the only man who ever showed up for me…is the one orchestrating my fall.

The puck drops.

The first shift is pure chaos. The Goats are relentless. These guys aren’t here to play nice; they’re here to eliminate us. Every check is a message, every puck battle is a battle for survival. They're on top of us, suffocating us with speed and aggression, pushing the envelope on every play.

The moment I step onto the ice, it’s like a gauntlet. I’m dodging hits, using my body to shield the puck, moving like I’m skating through a minefield.

I skate like I’ve got hell on my heels. Rowan’s to my left. Damien’s barreling down the right. And all I can see is the look of disgust on Brown’s face when he saw me with Irene.

I want to scream. I want to throw something. Instead, I play.

I’m digging deep, fighting for every inch. The Goats’ defensemen are monsters, all muscle and attitude. I can see the goalie, broad and steady in his crease, already anticipating my every move. Every second counts.

I catch Rowan’s eye as we skate up the ice. He’s already read my mind. We’ve been partners too long not to have that instinct. He makes the first pass to me, a hard, fast shot into my skate, and I tap it just enough to get it on my stick. The defenseman, tall as a fucking building, is coming at me hard, but I skate around him, pushing my legs harder.

Rowan’s already set up at the edge of the blue line, looking for the pass, waiting for me to pull the defense so he can find a lane. I know it’s not the right moment—not yet.

Instead, I hold the puck, skating backward as I twist around a defender, feeling his body weight press against mine. I fight to keep my balance, one hand on my stick and the other bracing myself on the defender’s shoulder. The Goats are coming at me from all angles.

This isn’t just about scoring anymore. It’s about surviving. I can see the opening, just barely. But there’s no way in hell I’m making that shot yet. The defense is too tight. Their goalie’s eyes are locked on me, waiting for me to take my shot.

I drop my shoulder, fake the pass, tuck the puck in, and carve between them. I feel a stick slap my ribs, an elbow to my back. I keep going.

Then, I feel the tap—Rowan’s right where I need him. The moment I’m ready to make the pass, I flick my wrist and send the puck to him. He’s in the perfect position. He slaps it. The goalie moves to block it, but Rowan redirects it, changing the angle just enough. The puck sails toward me, and I get ready. It lands cleanly on my stick, and I drive it up the ice. A Goats defenseman drops to his knees, trying to block me. I toe-drag the puck around him and cut sharp right. I only have one shot and zero time.

I pull back and fire, sending the puck flying.

Bar down. Net ripples. The roar of the crowd crashes through me like a wave.

The first goal is mine.

The goal is behind me now, but the game isn’t.

Coach hasn’t called me back to the bench yet, which means I’m staying on for another shift. My hip’s starting to ache a little, my lungs burning, but I skate back into position. I can take it. I’ll take anything they throw at me.

I’m still catching my breath when Damien skates up beside me, helmet slightly tilted, stick tapping against the ice.

“Holy shit,” he mutters.

“What?” I glance at him.

He silently jerks his chin toward the stands, and I follow his line of sight.

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