Page 1 of Puck Struck
ONE
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The fans usedto scream my name. Now it’s a low murmur, like they're waiting for the next headline about how I’m washed up, broken, done. How I need to just fucking retire already.
Maybe they’re right. But I’ll be damned if I go out tonight without reminding them who the hell I am.
The score is tied, 2-2 against the New York Renegades with three minutes left on the clock. The Renegades are a brutal team. They play hard, fast, and dirty, and the bad blood between our teams always makes for a tense game.
But tonight, they’re not gonna win. They won’t take that victory away from me, not now, when I need it the most.
I line up at center ice, jaw tight, stick gripped in my gloved hands so hard my fingers ache. Across from me, their winger, Rovoszuck, grins—a cocky little shit with cheap elbows and a bad attitude.
“Think you can last another three minutes, old man?” he hisses at me. “Or should I just put you out of your misery now?”
I bite down hard on my mouth guard, pain slicing through my shoulder from the hit into the boards I took earlier.
“You’ve got a lot to say for someone who hasn’t scored shit tonight,” I say, my eyes glued to the referee.
The puck drops.
It barely has a chance to bounce on the ice before I lunge forward, my body screaming, shoulder sparking white-hot pain through my chest. I win it anyway.
But barely. My skates slice at the ice, kicking up snow. I ignore the intense burn in my legs, the pounding of my heart, and the tightness in my chest.
I can’t stop. Can’t breathe. Can’t think about anything other than the puck sailing into the net. I can see it fly right past the goalie’s head.
This goal is mine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Carter Van Kleef, our team captain, skate up the ice on my right, ready for a pass that I don’t plan to make. Cam Foster, the Raptors newest winger, shows up on my left, streaking toward the zone, tapping his stick like he’s the second coming.
Not tonight, rookie.
No way is that showboat dickhead gonna get my glory.
I focus on the Renegade net, ignoring Cam. Then just before I drive the puck deep, one of the Renegades slams into me at the boards, his massive body plowing me hard. The crack in my shoulder’s deafening, even through the pads. I grit my teeth so hard, for a second I think I might crack the mouth guard.
Move your goddamn feet, Shaw. Get back in the game.
I choke down a breath, kick the puck free, and pull it onto my stick.
The New York goalie’s out of position. Panicking.
This is it.
My redemption.
My middle finger to every asshole who said I should’ve hung it up last season.
I swing for the shot.
And my shoulder buckles.
I hunch forward and the puck dribbles off my blade like a rookie’s first piss-poor attempt at a slapshot. It’s pathetic. Doesn’t even reach the net.
My heart drops into my skates. No. Fuckingno.
The whole rink gasps.
