Page 30 of Depths of Desire
“Fuck,” I hissed under my breath, pivoting to cover the retreat. Easton was already there, skating backward like the seasoned predator he was, waiting for a slip, a crack, a single second of opportunity.
But the other team didn’t give us one.
They played like a goddamn wall. Every shot, every setup, every rebound got swallowed by their defense or smothered by their goalie. It was suffocating. Maddening. The kind of game that made you want to snap your stick in half and throw it into the stands.
With a minute left, Coach called time-out.
We huddled at the bench, helmets off, breaths ragged, steam rising from our shoulders like smoke off a battlefield. Coach barked out directions, but I barely heard him. My ears rang. My blood was a drumbeat.
I glanced at Easton. His eyes were sharp and focused, but I could see the fury building under the surface. He wanted thisjust as badly and more. This was his team, his comeback season, and his name on the line.
I looked at Rhett. He gave me a short nod, as if to say, “Let’s end this.”
I wanted to. God, I wanted to.
Back on the ice, the clock ticked down. We poured everything we had into the final push. Rhett cleared a path. Easton forced the turnover. I streaked up the left side, took the puck, and shot with everything I had left in my body.
It hit the crossbar.
The sound echoed like a death cry.
Their defense flipped it fast, a brutal counterattack, and in ten seconds, we were scrambling back. Easton tried to intercept but missed by inches. Rhett slid to block the pass. The puck ricocheted.
Their winger took the shot.
Our goalie lunged, but it was too clean, too fast.
It hit the net.
3–2.
Game over.
The buzzer didn’t just scream. It stabbed.
I bent over, hands on my knees, trying to catch a breath that wouldn’t come. My vision tunneled slightly as the other team hollered, gloves and sticks flying as they swarmed their bench.
We didn’t move.
We skated off the ice in silence, and it was heavier than any shouting match.
The weeks-long streak was over.
My mood had been a roller coaster for weeks, but this was the plunge. The snap of gravity at the bottom.
And as the cold air of the hallway met my face, all I could think was that I didn’t know what was worse: the loss itself orhow badly I needed something—someone—to take the edge off it.
Inevitably, he crossed my mind.
Oliver, stretched out beside me in that cabin bed. The weight of his palm on my chest. The way he kissed me like he didn’t want to stop, even though we both knew he would.
I yanked my hoodie on and tugged the laces tight, like I could squeeze the thoughts out of my head.
The guys were already making plans. Lumière, of course. Cheap beer, sticky floors, and just enough bad lighting to make everyone feel invincible. Rhett was hyping it up like a man who hadn’t just watched our three-week winning streak snap in two. I didn’t blame him. He needed the noise and distraction.
Me? I needed air.
“You coming?” Rhett asked, balancing his duffel on one shoulder.
