Page 193 of Play Dirty

1-0.

The building split again — half roaring, half dead silent. But the roars were thunderous. Feet slamming aluminum floors threatened to shake the peeling paint from rink’s walls.

I didn’t celebrate long. I turned instead.

Watched.

Sutherland skated back, fishing the puck from the net.

And there it was.

That look.

Not anger. Not frustration.

Something tighter.

Like the ice underneath him was cracking.

The puck dropped again, and it got worse as the period went on.

Subtle changes, but I saw them.

An overcommit, on a routine shot. Late recovery. A rebound kicked out where it shouldn’t have been.

What the hell is wrong with you?

He was better than this. I knew he was.

But I still remembered what he did.

We made it 2-0 late in the second. This one was mine.

Clean. Fast. No hesitation.

I took the pass, cut inside, and snapped the shot before he could set.

It punched the back of the net before he even moved.

I didn’t celebrate.

Just turned and skated away.

By the third, they were unraveling. You could feel it, both on the ice and off.

Passes missed. Structure slipping. Confidence gone.

And Sutherland?

He was breaking. Piece by piece. I saw it in his eyes, now. That same tight look.

Like he wasn’t playing us anymore.

Like he was playing something else, inside his own head.

They got one back with ten minutes left. Scramble in front. Sebastian almost had it.

2-1.