Page 120 of Playing for the Hat Trick
The puck rips low, a screaming missile across the ice, and slams into the back of the net.
Goal.
The red light flashes, the horn blares, and everything inside me roars to life. I skid into a spray of ice, punching a fist into the air as my teammates crash into me, helmets knocking, gloves pounding my shoulders and back.
Carson grabs my helmet and shouts over the noise, “You cocky son of a bitch—you’re still good.” His laughter shakes against me, and something inside me unclenches for the first time in months. I’m panting, grinning like an idiot, feeling more alive than I have in way too long. I’m here. I’m fucking back.
Second period grinds into something harder, grittier. The adrenaline wears off, and all that’s left is the burn. Every stride turns into a test. Every check rattles down to my ribs. I take a brutal hit against the boards—shoulder to chest—and for one terrifying second, everything blanks out.
Knee. Knee. Protect the knee.
My brain flashes warnings I can’t afford to listen to. I pop back up, slamming my stick on the ice to call for the puck, teeth clenched so tight my jaw aches. Fear presses in around the edges, but it doesn’t win. Not today. Anders feeds me a pass, quick and clean. I deke around a defenseman, everything raw instinct now, and snap off a shot without thinking.
The goalie gets a piece with his blocker, knocking the puck away. But it bounces right back to me, practicallgift-wrapped. I hammer it home, top shelf, nothing but net.
Second goal.
The crowd explodes, noise crashing down as I skate to the bench. I trade gloves with the boys, feeling their hits land solid against my gear. The coach claps me on the helmet, the lines around his mouth deep with something dangerously close to pride.
“About fucking time,” he says, shaking his head like he’s trying to hide a smile.
I’m grinning so hard my face hurts, my heart battering against my ribs with a different kind of rush.
Third period feels endless. Every muscle in my body screams, sweat soaking into my gear, but we’re up by one, and the clock drips down slow, unforgiving seconds. Every possession matters. Every check, every shot. One mistake could swing the whole game.
And then it happens. Turnover.
A lazy pass floats across center ice, begging to be punished. I pounce, stealing it clean, and launch myself down the open lane. The ice stretches out in front of me, clean and perfect, like it’s daring me.
Go, go, go.
I tuck the puck close, blades biting into the surface, legs driving harder with every stride. One defenseman left. He lunges. I fake left, tuck right, my stick a blur, and suddenly, it’s just me and the goalie. Time slows. I spot the tiniest sliver between the goalie’s pad and the post—the one opening he can’t cover fast enough.
I shoot.
The puck launches off my stick with a snap, ripping straight into the top corner.
In. Clean.
The arena erupts.
Hats rain down from the stands in waves, flooding the ice like a goddamn blizzard of belief. I skid to a stop, arms thrown wide, soaking in the noise, the heat of it pounding through me like a second heartbeat. My teammates tackle me again, shouting in my ears, pounding my back, but it’s all background now.
Because I’m already looking.
Scanning the stands. Searching.
And there she is.
Scottie.
Front row, against the glass, jumping up and down like she can’t help herself, hands cupped around her mouth as she screams something I’ll never hear over the roar. Her cheeks are flushed. Her whole face lit up with something so fierce it knocks the breath right out of me.
She’s here.
She came home.
I’m frozen for a second, the whole world falling away except for her. My hands shake inside my gloves. My lungs forget how to work. And then—like she feels me looking—she grins and lifts two fingers to her mouth, blowing me a kiss. Tiny, quick, a little shy, like maybe she’s nervous too.
