Page 135 of Over the Line

The stadium fills with cheers.

The music blasts.

The players come out.

And…the puck drops.

And the night is that perfect mix of peace and easy andwonderful.

Right until the game ends, when I drive back to Lake’s house, and I walk into his house.

Then that urge to hit the open road ramps up.

And takes over.

Fifty

Lake

“Yeah!”Leo calls, cutting hard across the ice, stick down and ready to receive a pass.

I grunt as I absorb a hit, the air leaving my lungs, but then I’m pushing off, angling my stick, flicking the puck up to my teammate.

He corrals it without losing speed, carrying over the red line and then chipping it into our offensive zone when the other team bears down on him.

It’s been like this all night.

Not a lot of space.

On our asses in a second.

A tight game.

I want it to be a blowout, want to give Nova a show.

Tonight’s not that night.

It’s a battle, a grind, a fight for every foot of ice, for every shot, for every pass.

Riggs streaks into the zone, almost a blur, he’s moving so fast.

Which isn’t typical.

Because he plays defense. Because his specialty is blocking shots.

Because he isn’t often streaking, hauling ass down toward the goal, stick on the ice—

Scooping up the puck when the other team tries to clear it.

Hell fuckingyeah.

I’m already moving, having shoved the asshole who tried to pin me off, skating my ass off to get into the zone behind Riggs.

I whistle, something that can’t possibly be heard over the crowd noise, over the sounds of the game, over the other team shouting.

But hedoeshear it, and he reacts, shooting the puck over to me when I take the lane on the far side.

Time slows down.

---