Page 63 of Crease Collision

“I’d like that. Text me after your skate?”

“Sure. And before I go, I want to tell you how happy I am about us.”

My pulse ticks up a few notches. “Me too. Talk tomorrow.”

“Hej då, baby.”

“What?”

“Goodbye. It’s a friendly way to say it.”

Deep breath. If I’m dating a Swede, I have to try. “Hay doh.”

He leaves me with a grin. For a while after he disappears, I stare at the ceiling.

I’m doing this.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

OSKAR

The whistle snaps, and we are back at it. Penalty kill units rotate in and out, faces already dripping with sweat.

Coach Troutman yells constantly, demanding pressure, not collapse. “No easy lanes. No clean setups.”

My teammates keep moving. The puck zips high to low, then into the slot. I track it from the crease—reading, adjusting, calling out coverage.

“Up top! Watch the seam. Tie him up.” My voice cuts sharper than I expect, but no one questions it. This is where I must be certain.

“Reset! Do it again.”

Same drill, same pattern, but nothing about it feels routine. My focus slips at the edges, enough to piss me off. I am a half-second late pushing across. A rebound I should have swallowed kicks into the danger area.

“Jävlar,” I mutter, tapping my stick against the ice.

No one says anything, but I catch a glance from Carson. They notice. I’m new, and on the penalty kill, one crack turns into a goal from the other side faster than anyone can process.

Lewis releases another shot, and one of my defensemen slides through the crease at the worst possible moment. I lose it for an instant. The puck slips past.

“Fan.” The word comes out low, more breath than sound.

“Sorry, Olly,” Lewis says, helping me up. “You good?”

“Yes,” I say, swallowing the rest.

The next rep starts, and I force everything tighter.

Deeper breath. Quieter head.

The shooters cycle faster now, trying to pull us apart, and it almost works. The box stretches, a lane opens, and the puck comes through traffic.

Instinct takes over. I drop, seal, absorb.

No rebound.

The whistle blows, and I stay down for a beat longer than necessary, glove pressed over the puck, enjoying the feeling of control.

It’s mine.