Page 164 of Play Dirty

Rusty.

Passes missed. Breakouts fumbled. A step behind on everything that mattered.

I stood behind the glass, arms folded tightly across my chest, watching it unravel.

The first goal came quick. Too quick. A bad turnover. A clean shot, back of the net.

0-1.

The crowd noise dipped, just a little.

The second one hurt more.

Sloppy coverage, late reaction.

0-2.

“Come on…” I muttered.

On the ice, Ares slammed his stick once against the boards. Sebastian leaned forward in the crease, his eyes fixed on something only he could see. The whole team felt off balance.

Except Grayson.

He wasn’t panicking. He wasn’t frustrated. He looked…

Relentless.

Like something had locked into place behind his eyes.

Next shift, he chased down a puck he had no business getting to. Narrowly avoided a check hard enough to rattle the glass. Stayed on it like he wasn’t allowed to lose it.

“He’s not playing to win,” I whispered to myself.

He was playing more like he had something to erase.

The first goal wasn’t pretty. Scramble in front of the net. Bodies everywhere, rebound bouncing loose.

Grayson dove — actually dove — and shoved it across the line.

1-2.

There was no celebration. He was already skating away. Lining up to deliver the next one, which came soon afterward.

The second one was cleaner. Controlled entry, quick release, zero hesitation.

2-2.

The energy changed. You could feel it ripple through the arena. See it in the way Mercer shifted from his back foot to his front.

It flowed through the crowd. Through the bench.

Through him.

And then — the third.

I don’t even know how he emerged with the breakaway, but he did. Everything slowed down. The crowd rose. The sound swelled.

Grayson skated like a man possessed, pulled the puck across his body—