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Nodding, I fix my gaze on the screen. “Yeah, I kind of had to after I had a complete breakdown in a baby shop.”
Something in my tone must warn my brother from asking more questions. All he does is throw his arm over my shoulder and pull me closer. “Let’s watch the game,” he says.
Soren
Ilace up my skates, the pull of each eyelet snug against my fingers—a ritual as familiar as breathing. I’m here in New Jersey, miles away from Minneapolis, but my mind is on a different kind of score. The cold bite of the rink is nothing compared to the chill Gail’s absence leaves in me.
She slips through my defenses like light through cracks. I can almost feel the ghost of her touch, the way she’d trace the tattooed web on my neck, a whisper against the scars of memory. How easily she unraveled me, her blue eyes wide with that mix of innocence and heat.
The ache for Gail swells within me, a tide that refuses to ebb. I need her back, need the brightness she brings to the murky depths of my life. Without her, everything feels like an echo, hollow.
The roar of the crowd hits me like a tidal wave as we skate out, the Sabertooths’ pride surging through my veins. The arena vibrates with energy, a living entity fueled by cheers and the sharp scent of anticipation. I feel alive, electric, every sense dialed up to eleven.
As the puck drops, I wonder if Gail’s watching. I know she isn’t here, Lucia told me and Mickey as much. But she could still be watching from home.
“Come on, Wall!” someone screams from the stands—my moniker, a reminder of what I’m here to do; explode into action and decimate the Jaguars.
I’m crouched in front of the goal, sweat trickling down my spine, muscles tensed like loaded springs. The arena’s a damn pressure cooker, thick with anticipation and the sharp tang of ice. My pulse throbs in my ears, a primal drumbeat syncing with the thudding hearts around me.
“Let’s go, Sabertooths!” The chant echoes, reverberating off the walls, a war cry that sends adrenaline spiking through my veins.
The ref’s arm lifts, poised and ready. I lock eyes with the puck, black against the stark white, the object of everyone’s lust tonight. And there it goes—dropping, hitting the ice with a clack that’s a starting gun to my senses. The chase is on.
We’re a blur of motion and intent, Sabertooths swarming over the Jaguars like shadows at dusk. The crowd roars, a living beast hungry for blood and glory. Sawyer’s a fucking titan, stick clashing with an opponent’s like he’s born for battle. Mickey’s grace is lethal, his moves slicing through defenses, quick as fuck.
“Go on, boys! Make ‘em weep!” I shout, voice lost in the cacophony, but they hear me. They always do.
Sawyer slams one Jaguar into the glass, eliciting a collective gasp that’s music to my soul. Mickey darts forward, trying to snag the puck, but he’s half a second too late. Silver eyes flash my way, and I nod. We don’t need words; our bodies speak volumes.
The puck’s back in play, and I’m the last line of defense, heart racing with every shot that comes my way. Each block is a promise, each save a secret whispered to Gail, wherever she is. “This is for you,” I mutter, batting another attempt away.
“Nice save, Taylor!” someone screams from the stands. But her voice isn’t among them, and the void left behind is a cold fist squeezing my gut.
We dominate the ice, a storm of power and precision that leaves the Jaguars gasping for air. It’s not just a game—it’s a declaration, each pass and goal a testament to our might.
“Fuck yeah, Soren!” Mickey bellows, slamming his stick against the side as he skates past. His smile is a flash of white in the rink’s artificial light, a brother-in-arms sharing the thrill of conquest.
“Keep it up!” I call back, watching him pivot and rejoin the fray.
Our opponents are desperate, floundering, but we’re relentless, a force of nature they can’t hope to contain. And every cheer that erupts from the crowd, every chant and whistle, stokes the inferno within me. It’s not enough to win; we must conquer, claim this victory as ours alone.
The ice shimmers under the arena lights, a glacial respite from the heat of my blood pumping furiously through my veins. I’m in my crease, muscles taut, eyes tracking the puck like a hawk zeroes in on its prey. The Jaguars are swarming, hungry for that one opening, but they won’t find it. Not on my watch.
A Jaguar forward breaks away, his skates slashing the ice as he barrels toward me with the puck on a string.
I drop low, a coil ready to spring, every fiber of my being straining toward the impending shot. Time slows, the crowd’s roar dims, and all that exists is the black disc hurtling toward me. My glove snaps out—pure reflex—and I snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. The puck thuds into the webbing, and the crowd erupts, their cheers a song to my prowess.
The clock ticks down, seconds slipping away like sand through fingers. The Jaguars throw everything they have at me, but it’s not enough. I’m a study in motion—a symphony of blocks, saves, and catches. Each movement is a calculated risk, honed by years on the ice, by the pain of loss, and the intoxicating high of control.
“Twenty seconds!” The bench yells, and the anticipation crackles in the air, electric and wild.
My pulse thrums in tune with the dwindling time, each beat a drumroll to our impending triumph. Their last desperate play unfolds before me, a slapshot rocketing toward the upper corner—a valiant effort, but futile. With a twist of my body, I deflect the puck, sending it ricocheting off the plexiglass with a satisfying clang.
“That’s what I’m fucking talking about, Taylor!” Coach roars.
The buzzer sounds, final and absolute, and a wave of elation crashes over me. We’ve done it. The Sabertooths have clinched a resounding victory over the Jaguars, their growls silenced by the might of our team. As my teammates swarm the ice, jubilation etched on every face, I stand tall in my goal, the taste of triumph bitter without Gail here to share it.
We head for the locker room, a pack of victorious warriors. All my teammates sans Mickey are talking about how much they can’t wait to fuck the adrenaline out of their body. Fucking pack of bastards. I want to do the same, to give in to the primal hunger stirring within me. It would be easy to find someone to share with Mick for the night, all too easy—and all too wrong.
