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At a minute thirty, Church and I get back on the ice with Jacob. I don’t want to score again, mindful of the threat against Aurora. I give the puck away as soon as I get it. Church shoots me a weird look. My passes are intercepted, and even with a man down, Vegas rushes the puck toward our goal.
And they fucking score.
I check the time and shake my head.
Two seconds left.
The refs organize us after Vegas’s quick celebration. I take the face-off, bending low and ready. Although it’s pointless. There’s no way we’re going to catch up afterthat.
We just got our asses handed to us.
And sure enough, the Vegas center seems toletme win the face-off, sending the puck to Rhodes. But the horn blows, and the game is over.
Seven to four.
What. The. Fuck?
There’s a weird lingering sense of shame hanging over my head as we head to the locker room. I throw my helmet into my cubby. Everyone is quiet until our coach comes in.
“Everyone back on the ice,” he says in a low voice. “Now.”
Jeez.
We go without a word. I barely remember to grab my helmet and stick. Some guys have to re-lace their skates, which they do with quick, jerky movements. Our coach is bag skating us, I can feel it in my bones.
Which means he’s going to run us into the ground to prove a point.
The arena is still slowly emptying when we hit the ice. His assistant coach blows a whistle, and we skate to the goal line.
“You know the drill,” Coach says quietly. “Begin.”
The whistle blows again. One sharp blast.
We push off, doing stupid suicide sprints to each line and back. Farther and farther, until we’re crossing the whole rink. We make it back to the goal line, and I dig into the ice. I look over at Jacob, who frowns.
And Church, who’s gritting his teeth like he expects this to go on all night.
Great.
We go again.
And again.
And again.
I puke, but I’m not alone. I press my hand to the boards and cough and choke, then swallow my pride and get back on the line.
I spot Aurora. She’s still sitting in her seat, her arms folded tightly over her chest. Her expression is pinched, but she doesn’t react otherwise.
Haverhill takes a tumble on the final turn, sliding into the wall. He’s not the only one starting to fall over his feet. I can barely keep my skates under me.
By the time Coach calls it, we’re drenched in sweat.
“In the goal, Haverhill.” He knocks a pile of pucks onto the ice. “Two-on-ones.”
Jacob takes his position in front of Haverhill. Church and I lock eyes, and we trade a nod. We move wordlessly toward him, Church cradling the puck and taking it down along the boards. When Jacob moves to intercept, he passes to me.
I know my best friend. He skates backward almost as fast as he does forward, and he races to meet me. I take a wild snap shot.
