Page 95 of The Final Faceoff
The first round of shots comes fast. My eyes track each one, cataloging every angle, every shift in a skater’s stride that hints at their release point.
Blocker save. Glove deflection. Rebound control.
Nothing gets past me. Not yet.
When it’s Jason’s turn, he challenges me with a real slapshot. I’ve seen him wind up for years, know exactly how he sets up his body before he releases.
He’s deceptive. He wants the goalie to bite, to react too soon.
I don’t.
The puck rockets toward the top corner, but I’m there before it lands. My glove snaps around it, absorbing the sting. I drop the puck onto the ice, flicking it back toward him.
“That all you got?”
Jason shakes his head, skating past. “I keep forgetting how much of a smug bastard you are, fucker.”
Practice moves fast, the rhythm of the team kicking into place. I see the patterns, the chemistry forming, but I’m still on the outside of it. The other guys have their flow, their inside jokes, their tells. I’m learning them as much as I’m learning the plays.
Ty Rourke, one of the wingers, coasts up next to me while waiting for the next round of drills. “You always that dialed in?”
I adjust my mask, rolling my shoulders. “Only when I’m on the ice.”
Jason scoffs from behind us. “He was born like this.”
Rourke lifts a brow. “You always do the goalpost tapping thing?”
I stare at him. “Yes.”
“And if you don’t?”
Jason laughs, answering for me. “He does. Trust me. He made our high school team restart warm-ups once because his skate felt off.”
Rourke whistles low. “So, rituals, huh?”
“Routine,” I correct.
“Same thing.” He grins, skating off.
Jason leans in. “They’re gonna love you.”
I flip him the finger. The scrimmage drills ramp up the speed. The team is adjusting, pushing the pace, and I push with them.
Jason and Rourke break out on a two-on-one rush. Jason handles the puck, his posture calm, but I know him too well. I track his stick, not his eyes. He fakes a shot, but I don’t commit. When the real release comes, I explode across the crease, cutting off the angle. Nothing gets past me and that’s how it should be, always.
By the time practice ends, my body hums with exhaustion—the deep, satisfying burn that comes from pushing every muscle to its limit. I strip off my mask, running a hand through damp hair as the team trickles off the ice.
Jason lingers. “That felt good.”
I nod, rolling out my shoulders. “Yeah.”
He grins. “We’re gonna get the fucking Cup this season.”
I smirk, gripping my stick a little tighter. “Damn right we are.” Things are starting to turn around, I think, at least I hope. The girl is mine, the team is right . . . there’s just something missing. I don’t know what, but I’ll figure that out soon.
ChapterThirty-Two
Hailey
