Page 92 of Across the Boards

We take an early lead on a power play goal, the crowd erupting as Tommy feeds Ramirez for a one-timer that Miami’s goalie has no chance of stopping. The energy in the building rises, our confidence with it.

It’s midway through the second period when things start to get chippy. Miami, frustrated by the 2-0 deficit and our suffocating defensive play, begins taking liberties after whistles—extra shoves, subtle slashes, the kind of provocations that test discipline.

“Stay focused,” I remind the defensive unit during a TV timeout. “They’re trying to draw penalties.”

Then comes the shift that changes everything. I’m matched up against Jason’s line, tasked with shutting down their top scoring threat. He avoids looking at me during the faceoff, but as soon as the puck drops, he’s relentless—driving to spaces I’m covering, initiating contact whenever possible.

“Having fun playing house with my sloppy seconds, Carter?” he mutters as we battle for position in front of our net. “Didn’t realize you enjoyed charity cases.”

I ignore him, focusing on clearing the rebound from Jensen’s save.

“She always was desperate for validation,” he continues, following me up the ice. “Guess she found it with Phoenix’s resident teacher’s pet.”

Still, I say nothing, making the breakout pass to Tommy and changing directions to support the rush.

The play continues, back and forth, physical but clean. Until Jason takes it to another level.

“Tell me,” he says during a puck battle along the boards, voice low enough that only I can hear. “Does she still make that pathetic little whimpering sound when she comes? Or wait—has she even let you fuck her yet? Took me months to crack those frigid legs open.”

Something snaps inside me—a red haze descending over my vision. But years of discipline keep me from reacting physically. Instead, I win the puck battle, sending him sprawling with a perfectly legal body check that drives the air from his lungs.

“Stay down if you know what’s good for you,” I advise as I skate away, leaving him gasping on the ice.

He recovers quickly, revenge written clearly across his face. For the rest of the period, he hunts me on the ice—late hits, stick work behind the play, constant verbal jabs designed to provoke a response.

“She’s only with you to piss me off,” he hisses during a faceoff. “The moment I snap my fingers, she’ll come running back. Always does.”

“Funny,” I reply, finally breaking my silence. “She didn’t mention you once during our date last night. Almost like you don’t matter anymore.”

His face contorts with fury, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. The puck drops, and he immediately cross-checks me in the back—blatant, reckless, earning him a well-deserved penalty.

Our power play capitalizes, extending the lead to 3-0 as the second period ends. In the locker room during intermission, Coach pulls me aside.

“Whatever’s going on between you and Martinez, keep it clean,” he warns. “I need you on the ice, not in the box.”

“You got it, Coach.” I nod, fully intending to maintain my composure.

But Jason has other plans.

The third period begins with Miami pushing desperately to get back in the game. They score early, cutting our lead to 3-1 and injecting new energy into their attack. Jason is at the center of it all, playing with a controlled fury that makes him dangerous.

“He’s coming for you,” Tommy warns during a line change. “Watch your back.”

I’m always aware of where Jason is on the ice—hockey sense combined with self-preservation. So I’m not surprised when he lines me up for a hit in the corner. I brace for impact, absorbing the blow and staying on my feet.

What I don’t expect is what comes after—his gloved hand grabbing my jersey, pulling me close enough that his cage presses against mine.

“She’s using you,” he snarls. “Elliot’s got issues a mile wide. Couldn’t keep her own father around, couldn’t keep me around, won’t keep you around either. She’s damaged goods, Carter. Frigid, neurotic, and about as exciting in bed as a dead fish. But you’ll figure that out soon enough. The juice ain’t worth the squeeze.”

It’s the specific cruelty of it—the intimate details designed to humiliate Elliot, not me—that finally breaks my control. I shove him off, helmet to helmet, fury coursing through me.

“Say another word,” I growl, “and they’ll never find your body.”

He smirks, knowing he’s found the pressure point. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it? Ask her about Atlantic City sometime. Ask her why we really broke up. It wasn’t just the cheating, Carter. It was because she couldn’t give me what I needed. What any man needs.”

The officials are separating us now, whistles blowing, linesmen inserting themselves between us. But it’s too late. The switch has been flipped.

“You’re not even worth her time,” I say with cold certainty. “She’s more woman than you deserved.”

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