AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I grab my chest, alarmed by the sudden tightening and warmth cursing through me. I can’t help it, though. Seeing her lessens the sting my parents left.
In the next period, I played the best game of my life with renewed energy, but it wasn’t enough to keep Colorado from scoring. We’re tied two-to-two at the end of the second period.
Taking advantage of the break, I look for Amanda. She’s adjusting her gloves, not paying attention. I skate closer to the barrier separating us and bang against the plexiglass. This draws her attention, along with everyone else. Amanda whips her head toward the sound, and the brightest smile spreads across those imperfect lips.
Damn, she’s beautiful.
How I ever thought of her as plain is beyond me. Her thick, dark hair sticks below a white stocking cap and waves over her shoulder. That cute little dimple is on full display as she half-twists to show the back of her jersey with my number. Then she does a half-curtsy.
I laugh, motioning her to come forward.
“Wait for me after the game?” I ask, the words pouring out of me like an impulsive play I didn’t plan. I instinctively place my hand against the plexiglass, wishing to touch her.Whoa. Why the hell am I acting like a lovesick fool?
Her lips curve in a smile that’s all promising as her hand matches mine, and the anxiety fades as fast as it came. This is all for show anyway, right? I need to look the part.
“I’ll be here,” she mouths.
Dropping my hand, I skate backward, my eyes locked on hers. There’s something there, a question maybe, or is it anticipation? Whatever it is, it makes me want to win—not just the game.
“Get your head in the game, Morton,” Coach yells when I join the rest of the team. “This isn’t an episode out of ‘Love at the Hockey Rink.’”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a wicked grin that says, ‘I’m only doing what you asked of me.’ I laugh at his grumbled response.
The third period begins, and the ice becomes a blur under my skates for the rest of the game. Every check against the boards vibrates through the arena, and every near miss has the crowd inhaling sharp enough to suck the air from the room. Neither team has scored since the second period, making these last minutes crucial to avoid overtime.
“Behind you, Blake!”
I spin and snatch the puck like it’s my golden ticket. The rubber disk sings beneath my stick. I’m aware of every player on the ice with their positions imprinted in my mind.
“Nice move!” That’s Ryan’s voice, barely audible over the loudness of cheers and jeers, my name being chanted like a battle cry. “Duke. Duke. Duke.”
“Keep it up!” The encouragement is a wave I ride as my skates carve paths of determination, my heart hammering not just for victory but for something else I can’t quite name.
“Blake, left wing!” The call slices through the din, and I’m already there, body and soul synchronizing in a dance of desperation. The defenders come at me with every intent of crushing hopes. But not tonight, boys. This evening belongs to me.
“Drive it home, Blake!”
I fake left—my body a feint, my mind three moves ahead. The defenseman bites; I cut right, my muscles burning with purpose.
“Come on, Morton!” The chant from the bench blends into the discord around me.
I draw back my stick, the puck kissing the curve of its blade, and then—I let it fly. The slapshot rings out with promise.
“Fuck yeah!” It’s an explosion, the puck slamming past the goalie’s desperate dive, the sound of impact drowned by the following uproar.
“Yes!” My fist punches the air, and my teammates crash into me with the weight of warriors in triumph.
“Knew you had it in ya,” Drew slaps my shoulder, grin as wide as the goal we just claimed.
“Wasn’t going to let it slip by.” My breath comes out in misty plumes, the thrill of the score surging through me. “Come on, boys. Let’s finish strong.”
With the taste of victory lingering on our tongues, we rally for the final push. Sweat drips down my forehead, but I wipe it away with a gloved hand, refusing to let exhaustion claim me now.
“Two minutes left, Morton! Keep that lead!” Coach’s voice booms as we lose the face-off. My eyes never leave the ice as I weave through opponents, my stick an extension of my being.
The seconds tick away like grenades about to explode. I yell, “Watch the wing!” as I work to clog up the passing lane.
“Keep up the pressure!” The coach’s call snaps my focus tight as a drum. This game is ours to lose, ours to win.
