I know.
He got in my head again.
All I can think about is what his mouth would taste like, what his tongue would feel like on mine, those hands on me. So I avoid passing to him. I avoid helping him.
He’s not on my team right now.
????????
Third period. 1–1. Twelve minutes left.
The crowd is loud now. You can feel the pressure building like athird presence on the ice. We need a goal. Everyone knows it. I know something else too. I’ve known it all game. I just haven’t done anything about it. Because doing something about it means—
I shut that down immediately. I don’t even want to look at him. I can’t handle it right now. I win a battle behind the net and get it out to the point. Shot. Rebound.
It comes straight back to me.
I look up.
The net is there.
And so is he.
Back post. Stick down. Still in that way he gets when he’s locked in. He taps his blade once.
I’m here.
That’s all it means.
Everything in me that’s been holding this shut—every practice, every argument, every second of pretending the other day didn’t happen—it all runs straight into this moment.
And this time—
I don’t fight it.
I pass.
Clean. Easy. Right to him.
He doesn’t hesitate. The puck hits the back of the net and our Harlow section absolutely loses their minds. Everything explodes around me. Hands on my shoulders, guys yelling, helmets knocking into mine. I barely register any of it. Because I’m looking at him.
And he’s looking back.
And neither of us is really celebrating.
Not like everyone else.
He looks away first and I let the moment go with him.
We hold the lead and win.
2–1.
????????
The locker room is loud and exactly what a win is supposed to feel like, and I sit at my locker and feel none of it. That pass. I made that pass. The one thing I’ve been avoiding all night—the thing I kept turning away from—is still there.
Waiting.
