Page 52 of Game Misconduct
The puck drops and chaos explodes.
Tampa’s center wins the face off clean, shoves it back, and they come charging, driving hard.
Their winger cuts wide and fires a low blocker. My pad’s there, but the rebound spits out hotter than I like. Their forward pounces, whacking for daylight.
I sprawl, glove snapping, stick jabbing, body sprawling over the crease. Whistle blows late, pileup pressing heavy over my ribs. Thirty seconds in, and they’re already testing whether I can survive the storm.
It was a decent save, but I can feel it. My edges aren’t crisp. My legs aren’t snapping the way they should.
Fans roar anyway, feeding me energy I don’t trust. My lungs burn already, chest tight.
The Barracudas keep pressing, like hungry sharks circling. I make two clean stops, but the third slips.
It’s a low wrister, a weak shot, and one I should eat alive. It skitters through the gap between pad and post before I can clamp down.
Fuck me.
It’s the ugly kind of goal that makes the crowd groan like they’ve just watched a car wreck.
The noise shifts, and the energy in The Pit tilts.
It feels a lot like doubt.
Heat crawls under my gear, sweat sticking at the back of my neck.
Fuck. You can’t afford to be that guy. Not here. Not now. Not in front of her.
Because yeah, I know exactly wheresheis. High box, perfect view of every mistake.
My eyes flick up without meaning to, and I catch her.
Leaning forward, elbows on her knees, lips pressed tight like she’s got steel sewn into them.
Eyes locked on me, sharp and steady.
It should feel like pressure, but it feels like heat.
The wrong kind of heat.
It’s like she’s got me pinned here in my own crease, stripped down under all this gear.
My chest tightens, pulse racing harder than the play in front of me.
For God’s sake, Lasker. Fucking focus!
The whistle blows, and the game resets. I drag my focus back, but it sticks on her, even when it shouldn’t.
Riley decides he’ll play hero. He toe-drags through two guys like he knows he’s on television.
Flashy stick work, diving blocks. He’s all swagger, all noise, but he leaves holes big enough to drive a truck through.
He loses the puck at the blue line, and Tampa counters fast. I read the pass, slide across, chest stinging when I take the shot square.
Riley’s skating back with that grin like it’s all part of the plan. My teeth grind so hard my mask rattles and my irritation spikes.
I don’t need him grandstanding. I need him to stay in his lane.
Logan cleans the next sequence with a tape-to-tape pass that settles the chaos.
