Page 24 of Play Dirty

“Yeah,” he said.

But there was something in the way he said it. And I knew exactly what it meant.

In the last minute, the teams were still tied. The rink was charged with an unseen energy that only the final few seconds could generate. Everything was on the line. The crowd wasn’t just on its feet, they were on their toes.

I watched as the boys pushed up the ice again. My arms were at my sides. My tablet, forgotten.

They had good entry, good pressure. Then Ares veered off, to chase a hit…

… and a lane opened.

Exactly where it always did.

Shit.

By then it was too late. Everything happened in slow motion. The puck got turned over, and skated back. There was a brief two-on-one, resulting in a shot Sebastian had no chance to fight off. The shot came. The back of the net exploded outward…

My heart sank.

The roar of the other team’s bench was deafening.

DAMN.

The bitter taste of defeat began filling my mouth, for the first time in ages. I wanted to spit it out, to reject it. But I also needed to remember what it tasted like.

With thirty seconds left, I didn’t hold much hope. But then the Reavers tried to answer. They almost did.

God, they almost did.

Grayson cut through two defenders like they were glued to the ice. His look was fierce, his eyes determined. He passed to Caleb, who got a clean shot off. It slammed into the post with a high-pitched ring, bounced a few times, and landed directly in front of the net…

The ensuing scramble was unbridled chaos. Yelling. Shouting. A pile of bodies.

Then… the buzzer. Loud and obnoxious.

Game over.

~ 10 ~

GRAYSON

The locker room felt like a prison cell, now. Smaller and tighter, I just wanted to get out of it.

No one said anything when we came back in.

Gear hit the floor, in waves. Sticks clattered against the wall. Pads and gloves clapped against benches, amidst screams of Velcro.

We almost had it. That was the worst part. Not blown out. Not overplayed. Just…

Almost.

I dropped onto the bench feeling like I weighed a million pounds, and dragged a towel over my face. The damp fabric clung to my skin. My pulse was still up, burning off the last of the unused adrenaline. It begged me to use it; to slam a locker, to punch or throw something — anything, really.

I promptly told it to fuck right off.

Across the room, Ares slammed his stick into the rack harder than he needed to. No one called him on it. No one needed to.

That’s because we all felt it.