Page 104 of On Ice

“I really hope that’s true,” he murmurs, skating past me. “Cuz the team is all that matters. Not that asshole criminal.”

“I agree,” I say in a placating tone, watching him as he circles back around to me.

“Don’t forget all the stuff he did to you, Evan,” he grates out. “Sometimes you’re too fucking forgiving. The guy is bad news.”

“Dude, all I’m saying is he’s not being such a dick to me lately. Relax.”

Noah shakes his head and skates away as if he’s not buying it.

Anxiety shifts through me because I don’t want what I have with Luca, such as it is, to spoil my friendship with Noah. But now is not the time to worry about personal shit. Now is the moment to focus and win this game. The Ice Hawks need to keep our forward momentum. Because once you start losing, it’s hard to claw your way back.

Twenty minutes later, we’re lined up for the national anthems. I scan the Strikers’ lineup. They’re a formidable foe. Peters, their top center, is currently leading the league in points. Dougherty, their captain and defenseman, hasn’t allowed a goal while he’s been on the ice for the last four games. And their goalie, Temesvári, has a .932 save percentage.

The puck drops, and immediately we’re backpedaling. Peters wins the faceoff clean and kicks it back to Dougherty, who threads a stretch pass between our D pair. Their winger Yamamoto catches it in stride, forcing Noah to make a sprawling save in the first ten seconds.

“Wake the fuck up,” I bark as we reset for the next faceoff. “That can’t happen on the first shift.Jesus, guys.”

We manage to tighten up, but the Strikers are faster than us, more precise with their passes. Every time we get the puck in their zone, they collapse into a tight five-man box, clogging every passing lane. The first period is exhausting. We definitely chase more than we possess. It’s demoralizing to start off this lame.

With three minutes left in the period, I intercept a cross-ice pass and see daylight. I push the puck ahead and accelerate, legs burning as I create separation from the backchecking Striker.It’s just me and Temesvári now. I fake forehand, pull it to my backhand, then try to elevate it over his pad.

His glove flashes. The crowd erupts.

Fuck.

“Not today, Riley,” he says with a thick Hungarian accent as I spray snow stopping in front of his crease.

“Lucky save.” I force a smile, but inside I’m dying.

The buzzer sounds for intermission: 0-0, but we’ve been outshot 14-6.

That was not how we wanted our first period to go. The locker room reeks of sweat and athletic tape. Guys are gulping water, adjusting equipment, staring at the floor. Coach Daniels paces in front of the whiteboard.

“Guys, wake the fuck up. They’re playing their system and we’re playing into their fucking hands,” he says, voice tight with frustration. “We’re trying east-west passes through the neutral zone when they’ve got three guys stacked on the blue line. North-south, boys. Chip and chase if you have to. Make their D turn andwork.”

He draws a few quick diagrams, but his words buzz in my ears. I know what we need to do. Everyone on the team does. Execution is the problem. We’re choking and it’s making me want to puke.

Torres elbows me. “You good, Captain? That shot to your knee hurting?”

“Nah.” My right knee is throbbing like a son-of-a-bitch where I blocked a shot late in the period. But the guys can’t knowthat. If I’m feeling weak, they’ll start doubting we can do this. “I’m Fine,” I lie. “I barely felt it.”

Second period starts better. We’re moving our feet, winning battles along the boards. I start to think our luck has changed, then five minutes in, Torres feeds me a perfect pass on a two-on-one. I one-time the shot, but the puck hits the crossbar with a sickening ping that seems to echo around the arena.

“Fuck.”I slam my stick against the boards as I return to the bench.

“Temper, Riley.” Coach gives me a warning look.

We try to rally, but things start to unravel from there. Three shifts later, it’s fucking disaster. Peters dangles around Miller, our defenseman, and threads a no-look backhand pass to Yamamoto on the backdoor. Noah has no chance. 1-0 Strikers.

The crowd is deafening, the air suddenly heavy with their celebration. I can feel the momentum shift even further in their direction. The guys keep looking to me for encouragement, but I’m too busy having a meltdown to be much help. We’re fucking spiraling. It’s embarrassing.

We push back, getting more offensive zone time, but Temesvári is a wall. Rodriguez has a point-blank chance that the Hungarian somehow snags with his blocker. Torres rings another shot off the post.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ. We can’t catch a break.

Then, with forty seconds left in the period, a chance: Dougherty gets called for holding, sending us to the power play.

“This is it,” I tell the power play unit as we take the ice. “Quick puck movement, get them moving side to side.”

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