Page 161 of The Fine Line
I’m not just hyped up now. I’m pissed. Aggressive. Reckless.
I check everything that moves. Test the Storm’s patience by crowding their goalie every time we’re in their zone. Cuss out anyone who looks at me.
I fire a wild shot at the net. Holt tips it in. Tie game.
But then Bennett scores.
Coach calls a timeout. Holt takes the huddle.
I cut in. “Forget the perimeter. Pack the crease. They’ll feed James.”
Holt snaps his head toward me. “Excuse me?”
“He’s on fire. They’ll go to him. He never scores from long range. They’ll kill time with passes at the point while he sneaks in. Trust me?—”
“Sutton!” Holt barks, grabbing my shoulder pad. “Do you have a C on your chest?”
“No—”
“Exactly. And you never will. Because no one can trust you.”
My eyes scan over my teammates.
And I know he’s right.
Holt shakes his head and turns back to the huddle. I bite my tongue and skate to center ice alone.
If no one’s going to listen, I’ll do it myself.
The puck drops and I snatch it up, flying down the ice toward the Storm’s net. One of their defensemen stays on me hard, forcing me to make a wild pass.
My teammate’s not ready. He fumbles it completely.
I let out a frustrated grunt and turn—just in time to see the same defenseman skating past me with his back turned.
Something in me snaps.
I slam my shoulder into him full-force. No puck in sight. Justpure rage. His head cracks against the glass, and he collapses onto the ice.
I keep going.
But I don’t get far.
A body slams into me, shoving me into the boards.
I shove back—only to be slammed again, even harder.
“What the fuck was that?”
I look up.
It’s Bennett.
His eyes are blazing.
“What are you doing?” he demands, voice tight with fury. If I were anyone else, I’d be eating a fist right now. I deserve it. That hit was dirty. The dirtiest kind of dirty.
I open my mouth, but before I can speak, I feel something wet trickle over my lip. Taste something metallic.
