Page 157 of Game Misconduct

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I nod to myself behind the mask.

Redemption in real time.

Power play doesn’t convert, but the tone shifts. We’re controlling the puck now. Slowing Nashville’s rush.

Jace throws a monster hip check at the blue line that nearly rattles the boards loose.

Second period winds down, and we’re still knotted.

Until Riley catches a blindside hit.

It’s late. Dirty. Shoulder to jaw. He goes down hard, helmet skidding across the ice.

My heart spikes.

I slam my stick against the post. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”

The ref doesn’t move. Doesn’t blow the damn whistle.

I lunge out of the crease—just two feet—rage boiling behind my eyes.

But Jace skates in front of me, calm and commanding. He mutters something I don’t catch, but I fall back.

Barely.

Riley gets up under his own power, wobbly but waving it off.

He’s fine. Or pretending he is.

I look up.

Owner’s suite. Top right corner above the glass.

And she’s there.

Sloane.

Backlit by the arena glow. Hands folded at her waist. Jaw tight. Eyes locked on the ice.

Locked onme.

My pulse hammers in my throat.

I don’t blink. Don’t look away.

I skate back to my net and crouch. Feel every muscle in my body scream as I reset.

Whatever pain’s in my shoulder, whatever noise’s in my head, it doesn’t matter.

She’s watching.

And I need this win like oxygen.

So I give them the rest of the game.

I block three breakaways. Kill a four-on-three. Snap a glove save on a point-blank wrister that should’ve tied it late in the third.

We hold.

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