Page 53 of Game Misconduct
Jace keeps his calm, barking one command and pulling the team back into shape.
But me? I’m scrambling, chasing the play instead of commanding it. That’s not me.
That’s never been me.
I glance up once and find her watching with that unreadable expression that digs under my skin worse than a blade.
Doesn’t matter if she’s judging or waiting—I can’t stop seeing her.
And it’s costing me.
As the game wears on, it turns mean. Barracudas finish every check, and shoving matches break out after nearly every play.
Riley’s in the middle of most of them, along with Finn, who’s stirring shit like he was born for it.
Tampa smells blood, and they’re pressing.
Their forward winds up and rips one high. My glove flashes, snagging it clean.
I hold on to it long enough for the cameras to see it before I drop it with a thud. Finn skates past, grinning, and winks like he set it up just for me.
I barely keep from rolling my eyes.
Cal gets burned next—pinched too deep and caught flat-footed. Three-on-one.
My gut drops.
I square, force the shooter wide, and save it with a kick. It rebounds to the trailer—snap shot. I stretch, glove open, and snag it by a thread.
The whistle blows and Cal looks like he’s about to implode.
I tap his shin pad as I skate by, low enough no one notices. “Breathe.”
His nod is jerky, desperate.
After that, something shifts. My legs catch. My reads sharpen.
Save by save, I claw myself back. A glove snatch here, a kick save there, stringing together moments that keep us alive.
By the third attempt, I’m dialed enough to shut the door when it matters.
Big stops, heavy traffic, chaos in the crease—I hold it down.
We scrape out a one-goal lead, and somehow, we hang onto it.
The horn blares and The Pit explodes.
We win 3-2.
Relief rips through me, but it’s laced with something colder.
Frustration.
Because it’s a win that doesn’t feel like a win.
It feels like we survived, not conquered. It feels like we were one shift away from crumbling.
And the first face I look for when I rip my mask up?
