Page 131 of Monstrous Serpent

Shaw gets a piece of it, the puck changing direction just enough that Atlas is forced to pivot and go after it. He stumbles. Just a hitch in his stride, and the puck skips past his stick.

Our winger gets there first and feathers a pass into the slot. Right onto my tape.

I don’t think, I just rip it. Far side, under the bar.

The red light flashes, and the whistle blows. My teammates swarm me, tapping my helmet, and I grin so hard my cheeks ache.

“Fuck!” Atlas slams his stick on the ice.

My smile drops, and I hang back as the rest of my teammates skate back to the bench. I skate closer to him as he passes. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He still doesn't look at me.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He skates away without another word.

I skate over to the bench and hop over the boards. Our second line gets a few shots off, but nothing goes into the net. Doyle’s line doesn’t do much better, but fuck, my best friend gets put into the boards by Hunter so hard the plexiglass sways.

It’s a clean hit, but it takes Doyle a second to push to his knees and shake it off. The Serpents get possession and skate into our zone. Hunter takes a shot. It goes wide.

Doyle picks it up and gets around the Serpents’ defense.

Shit. A breakaway. I’m on my feet. “Go!”

He dekes, pulls Hayashi out of position, and tucks it around his pad.

“Yeah!” I bang my stick against the boards.

Our fourth line isn’t as successful, and the Serpents control most of the play. Luckily, Novotny is on fire and stops everything they throw at him. Which also means we’ll be hearing about how great he is in the locker room when the period’s over.

The Serpents take another shot, and it’s deflected into the safety netting. Time to get back out there.

I hop the boards and skate back into our zone, taking my spot high on the wall between the hash marks and our blue line, lined up in Trembley’s lane. He’s set up at the point, so I square to him, stick in the passing lane, ready to jump any puck they try to move up my side.

Serpents win the draw and fire. Novotny kicks out his leg. The puck hits the pads and rebounds. Rua goes after it, but I’m on him, lifting his stick with mine. Shaw skates in, gets possession, then passes to Reyes. He takes a shot, but Knight gets his blade in the lane and deflects it.

Our other winger gets to the puck and chips it over to Connor, who accelerates, taking it out of the zone. I follow, turning on the wheels. Connor steps over the red line and rims it hard around the boards, the puck kicking off the end glass and wrapping behind the net.

I cut in after it, chasing it down below the goal line, Atlas right behind me. I stay on the line, ease up just enough not to eat the glass, and get my stick on the puck as it comes off the boards.

“Shit!”

Everything hits at once.

A body. The boards. The glass.

My teeth crack together, pain flashing through my jaw as my shoulder slams first, then my ribs, then my lower back catches against the dasher.

The air leaves me in one ugly burst.

For half a second, there’s no sound. No crowd. No skates. No whistle.

Just white.

Something hot and electric rips down both legs. Then, they’re . . . gone. And I drop.

My knees hit the ice, then my hip, then I’m on my side with the cage of my helmet pressed against the cold, staring at a blur of skate marks carved into the surface. I breathe in through my nose, slowly, because Coach is always yelling about staying composed after contact.