Page 156 of Game Misconduct
Jace follows. Even Riley doesn’t mouth off.
Sloane’s still near the door, frozen in place.
But her posture loosens. Just slightly.
“Thank you, Finn.”
Then she leaves—coat whispering behind her like smoke—and the war begins.
They drop the puck, and everything else disappears.
I don’t think about the video. The silence. The way her voice cracked beneath all that polish when she said she couldn’t do whatever this is.
I just watch the ice.
Nashville comes hard. Fast break out of the zone, their right wing testing me early with a wrist shot glove side. I snag it without flinching. Toss it to the ref like it didn’t cost me anything.
Even though it did.
Even though my shoulder’s on fire already, that deep, dull burn that wraps around the joint and bites with every extension.
But I’m still standing. Still in it.
They cycle through fast. Pucks flying, bodies crashing, chirps echoing off the glass.
I let it wash over me. Let it scrape something raw and focused inside me.
The Vipers are holding, but Nashville smells blood. They push harder.
Riley gets caught deep. Eli’s slow on the backcheck. My crease clogs up, and I lose sight of the puck for half a second.
That’s all it takes.
Top corner. Blocker side.
I don’t even turn around. Just skate to the net, tap the post, and reset.
1–0, Nashville.
Eli bangs his stick on the boards, frustrated. Riley throws a gloved hand in the air. Holt’s shouting line changes from the bench.
I breathe.
One. Two. Three.
Next shift, Eli barrels in toward the net, tip-in off a beauty of a feed from Cal. It’s dirty. Scrappy. A garbage goal if there ever was one.
But it counts.
1–1.
The bench erupts. Cal’s face lights up, flushed and focused as Riley grabs his cage and yells something about “finally earning that damn locker.”
They’re pulling together.
Finn’s next on the ice. Eyes sharp. He’s all elbows and attitude, but he draws a penalty the clean way—drew his man out of position, and when the guy hooked him, Finn just grinned and kept skating.
No chaos. Just grit.
