Page 17

Jon nods at me, and I stand from the bench, ready to switch out for the line change in the third period of my NHL debut.

The second my blades hit the ice, I’m traveling down the right wing to support Tyler, who’s getting into it with one of Boston’s defensemen. He’s played like shit all game, and I can feel his frustration simmering, especially since Jon started him tonight.

The puck spills just as I approach them, and I pick it up, using my momentum to carry me away and behind the net.

As another defenseman comes crashing toward me, I scan the ice for an option to pass it off since I’m absolutely hitting the boards in the next two seconds.

Matt Rice, our assistant captain, is the closest, but still too far for me to make a pass and not risk a turnover.

Fuck.

Knowing I have speed on my side, I pull the puck back between my skates and spin away from the defender right at thelast second, heading back in the opposite direction. I’ve evaded him, but he’s still hot on my heels.

While I feel like I’m buying time with the puck rather than doing anything positive with it, Tyler pulls himself away from the goal and drags his defender with him. Their goalie is too busy tracking his movements rather than what I’m about to do.

It’s the cheekiest goal in NHL history when I slot the puck past the inside pipe and send us two to zero up in the last few seconds of the game.

A fucking goal, on my debut.

I barely have the time to process the thought when Sawyer comes crashing into me.

“Morgan, that was fucking wild!” he screams above the noise inside our home arena.

“Rook’s got skills and sass.” Matt holds his fist out to bump with mine.

I shrug as we turn and skate by the bench, high-fiving the team. “Saw the opportunity and took it.”

I’m heading back to center ice when Tyler rushes past me, narrowly missing a shoulder barge.

“Yeah, well, I was wide fucking open, but you’re welcome.”

Sawyer spins around to face me, one eyebrow raised in question.

I shrug again and look over at Tyler, who’s back in position with a face like we just leaked a goal and aren’t two ahead.

The remaining ten seconds plays out when the final buzzer goes, and the first game of the season ends in aWfor the Blades.

Exchanging words with a couple of the Boston players on the way over to the benches, Jon stops me by the arm just as I’m about to step off the ice and head down the tunnel.

“Got a second?” he asks.

As the ice clears and the benches begin to empty, Jon turns to me. “Nice intuition out there, Morgan.”

I set my stick against the boards. I know there’s something else to this as I begin pulling off my gloves. “But?”

He looks off toward the locker room, where all the players are disappearing. “How are things with you and Bennett?”

My first thought should definitely be about his shitty comment when I put us two up deep in the third, but instead, my mind travels to Kendra. It’s been three days since I offered her my place, but so far, I’ve heard nothing.

This is the issue with your coach knowing you so damn well—he can read you like a book.

I look at him and portray a casual stance. “I think things are better. On the ice for sure.”

He runs a hand through his dark hair. “And off it?”

“No different. We just don’t match up, and it’s as simple as that.”

As the last of the crowd filters out of the arena, Jon takes a seat on the bench. “Make an effort with him. Be the bigger man.”