Page 39 of My Fair Player

“YESSSS!” they screamed in unison as the buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the game that was tied.

“Go save Acton,” Coach Starnes ordered, shoving at him. “That poor kid is gonna get annihilated by those Kodiaks if we don’t get him outta there!”

Overtime was brutal – and quick.

If the Yukon Kodiaks weren’t ‘hungry’ for the win before – they wereravenousnow. Nothing was fazing them from their goal, driven by a desperation that was dangerous. Each man was in the mode, chewing on their mouthguards, spitting, and talking so much trash, but it was nothing compared to Acton’s mouth, especially when he got under your skin.

In fact, Liam’s teammate had the other team so pissed off, that Acton didn’t have to say a thing or utter one single syllable. Nope – Jett Acton stood there on the side, behind the plexiglass for his own safety, with his helmet off so you could see his face - and was sucking his thumb.

The playful man’s eyes were dancing in sheer delight.

Yep – the Kodiaks were enraged.

I’m gonna get my rear-end handed to me in about two seconds,Liam thought numbly as he hunkered down, ready to try for the puck the moment it hit the ice.

I’ve been hit before…

I’ve taken a puck to the head before…

I’ve lost a tooth before…

You’ve got this…

Be their leader, show them how it’s done – Savagely.

Screw that. Do it the Captain Pimples way!

The puck struck the ice with a sharp crack.

Liam launched forward like a bullet out of a gun, instincts flaring to life. Everything else faded—the roaring crowd, the clamor of sticks, even the burning in his lungs. All he could feel was the pull of the puck against his stick, the weight of every sacrifice that had brought him here, and the thunderous beat of his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest.

He didn’t need to look to know he was being hunted—he could hear the razor-edge of skates cutting into ice, too close, too fast. But he couldn’t spare a glance. His vision tunneled in and narrowed on the net ahead. A flicker of movement to his left caught his attention—Boucher. His teammate, his shield, skated fiercely at his side, fending off the defenders threatening to close in. He was buying Liam the moment he needed, the sliver of space to breathe—to strike.

And then he heard it—Boucher’s voice, fierce and desperate, ringing out like a battle cry behind him.

“Take it!TAKE THE SHOT!”

Liam didn’t hesitate.

With every ounce of strength he had, he flung the puck toward the goal, a whip-crack of motion as his whole body twisted into the release. For a second—an eternal, harrowing second—the world around him slowed to a crawl. His breath locked in his chest, the cold bit into his exposed skin, and the noise of the arena dulled to a thick, suspended silence.

The goalie, Tate Cassidy, who had a reputation on the ice, was already reacting, hurling himself to the ice like a man possessed, reading the desperation in Liam’s movement. Liam watched, his entire soul clenched tight, as the netminder dropped into a butterfly, his knees crashing down, his upper body diving forward in a blur of pads and reflex.

But Liam had seen it—just enough clearance. Just enough space.

The puck skimmed the ice like a whisper of fate, gliding in a perfect line. Three inches. That’s all it needed.

And that’s all it had.

With a softswoosh, a sound that Liam could swear echoed inside his own head, the puck slipped right beneath the goalie’s outstretched form—just before the pads slammed down.

It hit the back of the net.

The red light flared.

They scored.

The Wolverines won.

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