Page 156 of Offside Angle

Shane only nods.

His mask stays on, his eyes somewhere far beyond the group gathering around him, and nobody even thinks about blaming him. There isn’t anything to blame. Sometimes a puck hits a skate and goes somewhere it has no business going, and apparently sometimes that’s enough to decide who gets their name engraved on the Cup.

Hockey is a deeply stupid sport.

Then comes the handshake line.

I barely remember most of it afterward. Gloves clasping, brief eye contact, the same exhausted good series repeated until the words stop sounding like language. Most of Vanguard is respectful, and a few of them look almost uncomfortable facing us while their teammates are already waiting to celebrate.

Then I reach Luca.

Of course the little demon is smiling.

His grip closes firmly around mine. “Hope to see you in the Finals next season, pretty boy.”

I stare at him.

“I really hope not.”

Luca laughs under his breath, releases my hand, and moves on.

I don’t bother looking back.

By the time the last handshake is done, all I want is the tunnel, a shower, and maybe six months in a dark room where nobody is allowed to mention the words Game Seven.

We’ve barely started toward the bench when a voice cuts through everything.

“REAPERS!”

It’s one voice, sharp enough to carry over the remaining noise in the arena, and somehow every one of us stops.

I turn with the others.

Even Santi looks toward the stands.

Lena is standing a few sections down near the glass.

Her face is red from crying or screaming—probably both—and her hair has started coming loose around her shoulders. She looks at us for a moment, then grabs the little Reapers teddy bear they handed out at the doors tonight and throws it over the glass.

It lands near the blue line with the most ridiculous little thump imaginable.

For a second, everyone just stares at it.

Then another bear lands beside it.

And another.

Something changes in the building.

All around the arena, people start throwing theirs. Red-and-black bears tumble over the glass from every section, some wearing tiny Reapers jerseys, some with scarves wrapped around their necks, others bouncing and sliding across the ice until that first lonely bear disappears among dozens, then hundreds.

The crowd starts chanting again.

Not angry this time.

Not desperate.

Just loud.