Page 103 of Break the Ice

It would be for Marisse.

Sugar.

She’s the first woman that’s ever been my match. But not only is she as competitive and ruthless as I am, she’s intelligent and caring when she wants to be. She’s more interesting than anyone I’ve ever met and I can’t get enough of her.

I’m not sure I ever will…

My mind’s occupied as I return McGuire’s glare and set my stick at the ready. By outward appearances I’m more than ready to make a fool out of him. It’s on the inside that I’m realizing I’m more fucked up than I’ve wanted to accept. I’m hurting over everything that’s happened with Marisse.

FUCK.

Fuck-fuck-fuckity-fuck-fuck.

These are the thoughts running through my head as the ref tosses the puck and begins the game.

I snap into motion at once. I’m strategic the second it hits the ice—instead of going for the puck, I go for McGuire’s stick, blocking his swipe. Kai reacts off my play, sliding in quick enough to steal it right under the Trojan’s noses.

The game’s on. It’s a clash of bronze and maroon against silver and navy blue.

The fanfare’s deafening as the Trojan’s swarm around us. I’m in the thick of it, fighting off thoughts of Marisse, forcing myself to focus on what’s happening live in front of me.

Kai drives the puck down the middle, then passes my way. It’s a maneuver we’ve practiced many times before. I’m ready to receive ’til one of the Trojan’s defensemen swoops in with the block.

The tables turn. The Trojans steal the puck for themselves and race toward our net. We’re quick on the uptake but not enough to stop them—our guys clamber to block their shots only to miss by a couple millimeters. A guy by the name of Gerwig takes aim and lands a back-handed shot at our net.

The bronze and maroon portion of the crowd goes wild.

The Jumbotron replays the last few seconds in agonizing slow motion.

My eyes flick up to the scoreboard to see the zero remain by the Wolves but the one pop up for the Trojans.

We’re off a second time. The Trojans land the puck in their possession and bunt it straight down the middle. Our defense fails to keep them in check. You’d think Morasca’s posse was throwing the game the way they stumble on their skates, their stick action sloppy and uncoordinated.

I grit my teeth, gnawing on my mouthguard, my adrenaline ramping up. I shoot forward, inserting myself into the action, playing defense where our blue liners fail. The crowd screams as cameras zero in on me racing toward McGuire.

My stick work is as impeccable as always—I find my in, battling against his blade to snag a steal right from under him.

The entire arena descends into chaos—grunts of disbelief from Trojan fans and shrieks of excitement from Wolves. The commentator’s faces shine from where they’re seated in their boxes, narrating every move we make.

So do the coaches and rest of our team. They’re up on their feet, screaming, feverish in anticipation.

I’m pulling out all the stops. I steal the puck from McGuire, then bunt it over to Schmidt. We sync up on different sides of the rink, flying across the ice, batting the puck between ourselves. The Trojans can hardly keep up.

Schmidt passes it over to me as I come across the blue line. I spin around and then go for it. My blade strikes the puck at an angle that sends it whizzing toward the goal. The Trojans goalie dives to catch it but falls a couple inches short.

The Wolves erupt with pride.

We’re on the board. One for one.

The rest of the first period plays out in a tit-for-tat manner.

The Trojans score. Then we even it up. We score. Then the Trojans fight like hell to match us.

The clock runs out and we break apart after a failed goal attempt by Kai to overtake our opponents. We skate our separate ways, heading toward our respective benches.

Coach Oates waits, screaming in near hysterics about what we could’ve done and what he wants us to do next. He gestures to me and yells, “Alpha, you’re sitting out the second period. We need you back strong for the third.”

“Fuck off,” I answer. “I’m in on the second. McGuire’s doing the second. I’ve got another puck shot with his name on it—watch how it sails right by him.”