Page 105 of Offside Angle

Vanguard comes out swinging.

Literally.

Within the first three minutes, Tyler’s already in the box for cross-checking. Two minutes later, one of their defensemen catches Cole with a high stick and Cole drops his gloves so fast I barely have time to react. They’re both gone. Then Viktor levels their winger behind the net and somehow only gets two for roughing while their guy needs help getting up.

It’s nasty. Mean. Every shift feels like a street fight with skates on. Punches are flying, sticks are slashing, bodies are hitting the boards so hard the glass shakes. I take a slash across the back of my legs that makes my vision go white for a second, but I don’t go down. I just turn and shove the guy so hard he hits the ice. Two minutes for me.

By the time the first period is halfway over, almost everyone on our bench has already done a lap in the penalty box. The crowd is screaming. The refs look like they want to quit. And Vanguard won’t stop running their mouths every time we’re in the corner.

I hate these fuckers.

I really fucking hate these fuckers.

But we’re better than them when we’re not in the box.

With two minutes left in the period, Cole and Elias break out on a two-on-one. Elias makes a ridiculous no-look pass and Cole buries it top shelf. The lamp lights up. 1-0 Reapers. The bench loses their minds.

Vanguard tries to answer right after, crashing the net hard, but Shane stands on his head and keeps it out. The horn sounds with us up by one.

I skate toward the bench, breathing hard, sweat dripping down my back, gloves clenched tight around my stick. My legs are already burning and we’ve only played twenty minutes.

The second we’re back in the locker room, Damian loses it.

“You done swinging your dicks around, or are we playing hockey now?” he barks.

Nobody says a word. We all just sit there in our sweaty gear while he lays into us for the entire intermission. He doesn’t raise his voice much after that first outburst, but every word lands. He goes through every single penalty, every stupid retaliation, every time we let Vanguard bait us into the box. He tells us we’re better than this. That taking turns in the sin bin isn’t a strategy. That if we keep playing like this, we’re handing them the game on a silver fucking platter.

I keep my head down and nod when I’m supposed to, but my leg won’t stop bouncing. The second the door opens again and we head back out, I feel like I can finally breathe.

The second period starts fast.

I’m back out there with the same line, and for the first few shifts I’m locked in. Clean passes. Good gaps. I break up a rush and send the puck up the ice before their winger even knows what happened. I’m playing well.

Until I glance over at the glass during a whistle.

Santi’s right there, moving along the boards like he always does. I let my eyes find him for half a second, expecting that small, private look he sometimes gives me when no one’s paying attention.

Instead, I catch the way his camera keeps lingering.

On Luca.

Not just once. Not just by accident. Every time Luca’s on the ice, Santi’s lens follows him. Framing him. Catching him on the forecheck, on the breakout, even when he’s just standing still at the faceoff dot. I watch it happen three times in the span of one shift.

I tell myself it’s nothing. He’s doing his job. He’s supposed to capture the game, all of it. Luca’s a good-looking guy. Of course Santi’s going to get good shots of him. It doesn’t mean anything.

But the thought doesn’t stick.

Because I know Santi. I know he’s not like me. He’s not figuring this out as he goes. He’s not scared of what he wants or how to take it. He’s been living this for years. He knows exactly what he’s doing when he touches someone. When he talks to them. When he looks at them like that through the lens.

And Luca… Luca knows what he’s doing too. He’s not new. He’s not the one who freezes up or gets in his own head or needs every single step explained to him because he has no idea where his hands are supposed to go.

I skate harder. Hit harder. I lay a clean but heavy check on their center that sends him spinning into the boards and draws a cheer from our crowd. Viktor gives me a brief, approving glance.

I don’t feel it.

All I can think about is the way Santi’s camera keeps finding Luca.

And how maybe, somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s comparing.