Page 33 of On Ice

That’s if Luca will even allow us to win the next game. For all I know that bastard wants us to lose every game we play. Is this all my fault? Did I play Luca wrong? Should I have tried teasing him and been more playful? It’s obvious going head to head with him didn’t work. Maybe if I’d approached him differently, he’d have given me what I asked for?

I guess I’ll never know.

For now, this is my reality. I either throw the game, or Noah could die. There’s no easy decision here. I’m fucked no matter what choice I make. But I have to pick one. Time is running out.

****

The arena thrums with so much energy, I can feel it from the tunnel where we’re gathered. I’m distracted as Coach Baker’s pre-game speech washes over me. Something about proving ourselves, and never giving up. It only makes my shame worse. I catch Torres nodding to every word of Coach’s speech. Deck stretches his bad shoulder as he listens to Coach. It’s an injury that should have ended his career two seasons ago but somehow hasn’t stopped him from protecting his teammates. My eyes sting as I look at every face on the team. I love these guys. I’d do anything for them.

And instead of leading them to victory, I’m supposed to help them lose.

As the tunnel darkens slightly, my heart bangs my ribs so hard I feel nauseous. The stomp-stomp-clap rhythm ofWe Will Rock Youby Queen starts playing and we skate out onto the ice. The crowd cheers loudly, and I soak in the high-energy moment. Part of me feels like I don’t deserve their approval. Not tonight. Tonight, instead of giving my team the win we deserve, I’m supposed to serve the insatiable greed of Luca Barone.

The first period starts fast. Chicago plays like their record suggests: quick, skilled, ruthless. But we’re keeping up like I knew we could. Noah does gymnastics, making saves that belong on highlight reels. Torres and Mills work their new defensive pairing like they’ve been together for years. Deck takes a massive hit to protect Jackson on a rush, then gets up grinning.

“That all you got?” he taunts the Chicago forward who hit him. I know that body slam had to hurt, but Deck isn’t going to let anyone see his pain. I don’t think I’ve ever heard the guy complain once.

Deck’s heart inspires me. His courage makes me feel like I need to fightwithmy team, not against it. I shouldn’t be thinking like that. I’m playing with fire even entertaining the thought of not throwing the game. I can almost feel Luca’s hands on my windpipe, squeezing. Luca made it clear that I’m supposed to miss passes. Take bad angles. Waste opportunities. I’m supposed to do all that bullshit and make it look accidental. Like I’m just having a bad night or something.

The game continues and I watch Noah robbing their top scorer on a breakaway, somehow getting his blocker on a shot that looked impossible to stop. I watch Torres take a puck to the chin and barely flinch, too focused on clearing the zone. Jackson stands up to a guy with six inches and forty pounds on him because that’s what the team needs.

Watching my team fight ignites a fire in my veins. I know what Luca wants me to do. His angry eyes and the venom in his voice are still burned into my memory. But instead of sabotaging my team, I’m battling along the boards, digging pucks free, and setting up chances. Each shift, I tell myself the next one is when I’ll start throwing the game. Each time my line hits the ice, I promise myself now is when I’ll follow through with what Luca wants.

Before I know it the first period ends. We didn’t score, but neither did Chicago. There’s electricity in the room during intermission. We can win this. Everyone feels it.

“Good energy out there,” Coach Baker says, locking eyes with each of us. “Stay focused. Stay hungry. This is our game to lose. You’ve heard people saying Chicago is going to kick our ass tonight. Well, I say screw that. We’re going to win and get into the motherfucking playoffs.”

The team goes nuts clapping and yelling. Everyone is flushed and starving for victory. I can’t help but feel the same as them. My gut churns because I know Luca is probably going to kill meandNoah if I disobey. But I can’t seem to squash the pride and fire inside me. We’re so close to getting in the playoffs. I don’t know what the hell I should do.

The second period starts even faster. Chicago scores first, a rocket from the point through traffic that even Noah can’t see. But instead of deflating us, it fires everyone up. Mills and Torres shut down their top line on three straight shifts. Deck throws a hit that has their captain thinking twice about crossing center ice.

And then, with five minutes left in the period, I see it developing. Torres pins their defenseman along the boards,kicks the puck free to Jackson. Jackson looks up, sees me cutting through center ice. The pass is perfect.

The puck hits my stick.

I could easily fumble it, waste the chance, and help us inch closer to losing.

I see Noah at the far end of the rink, on his feet, watching. See Torres pushing himself up from the boards, still fighting. See Deck and Mills on the bench, leaning forward. See Coach Baker’s intense focus. See all of them believing, in the game, in each other, in me.

The Chicago goalie challenges, cutting down the angle.

I shoot.

The puck hits the back of the net before he can move.

The arena erupts. My teammates mob me, their joy pure and uncomplicated. Torres taps his helmet against mine, grinning through his cage. “We’re not dead yet, Cap.”

As we skate off the ice to rest before third period, I catch sight of Luca in the owner’s box. Even from this distance, I can read the tension in his posture. I swear his eyes look like red demon eyes from where I stand. It’s no surprise he’s furious. I’m surprised the glass windows aren’t melting from the rage I’m sure he’s feeling. I’ve disobeyed him. I haven’t done as he commanded.

But there’s still another period. We can still lose. I have time to redeem myself.

When the third period starts, it’s war. Chicago is done playing around. They score again on a power play, but Jackson ties it up three minutes later off a feed from Mills. Noah makessave after impossible save, keeping us in it. Every shift feels like overtime, every puck battle like it could decide the season. It’s brutal. My muscles are burning. We’re all covered in sweat and breathing like race horses.

With two minutes left, Torres blocks a shot that has him limping to the bench. But he waves off the trainer, watching the game with fierce intensity. “We got this,” he says to no one in particular. “We fucking got this.”

Chicago pulls their goalie with a minute left. Six on five. Pulling their goalie off the ice is a big risk, but it shows Chicago is desperate to tie the game. That move gives them an extra skater, meaning they now have six players on the ice while the we still have five. It’s an all-or-nothing move to increase their chances of scoring, but it leaves their net completely unguarded. That makes it easier for us to score if we can gain control of the puck. It’s a high-stakes gamble that shows how much the game means to them. But the game means just as much to us, if not more.

I lose a defensive zone face-off, but Deck somehow gets his stick in the passing lane, deflecting the puck to Noah. Noah gloves the puck and launches a breakout pass up the middle, catching Mills in stride. Mills, who everyone said was too small for the NHL, turns on the jets.

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