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The crowd roars in my ears. A white noise I could fall asleep to—that’s how relaxed I am. I skate out to my net to begin my pregame ritual, cutting up the ice in the crease and settling into the only place that’s ever felt like home.

People pound the glass behind me. They know what’s coming. I sigh, wondering if another video of me stretching will circulate on social media. It does after almost every game.

But there’s no helping it—the groin stretch is essential. Sure enough, the cheering gets louder as I get down on my hands and knees and spread my legs.

A woman holds a sign reading “I need stretching out too!” Heat crawls up my neck, and I’m forever grateful to my mask for hiding my embarrassment. Tuning out the catcalling, I focus on my warm-up. This is my least favourite part of a game.

I block it out so I can listen to my body. I feel good, better than normal. Running with Leah has helped my body recover during these last few weeks, and I’ve felt the effects of slow running in my workouts, proving more cardio at a lower heart rate improves performance.

I’m ready for this game.

We haven’t lost all season. We’re on a streak—ten games in a row. Six of those have been shutouts. When the horn sounds, the team makes its way over to the bench for the last pep talk and instructions from Whyatt.

I’m zoned in. Nothing else matters as we listen to him yell at us to give them hell. The coaching staff nod, slapping us on our shoulder pads, and I’m ready to be back at home, in my net.

Before I make it there, I need a word with my trainer about having more electrolytes in my water bottle in the second period. But Adam is standing beside him and when he turns, I’m distracted.

I follow his eyeline and notice Paige sitting right behind the bench, cheering and blowing a kiss to her fiancé. But that’s not who I’m focused on.

Leah sits beside her cheering as well, and I swear she catches my hesitation before I turn around and skate to my net, forgetting all about proper hydration.

Forgetting everything but Leah sitting there, behind my bench.

Irrational anger and wounded masculine pride surge in my blood as the game begins. It’s all heightened by the adrenaline of the game playing out in front of me as I track the play down the ice.

There’s a quick turnaround, our forwards losing possession, and the puck comes flying down to my end. I’m lasered in, focused on the game, everything else falling away .

Everything but that unreasonable outrage. I see the play happening in front of me. Our players leave an opening for a cross pass, back to their defence for the one-timer ...

The puck lands with a loud thud in my glove and the stands erupt. My teammates give me some love taps, but I don’t care. My eyes flick over to the bench, to the women sitting behind it.

To Leah, with her plain white shirt and green jacket. She’s not wearing any Whales logos or jerseys. Not even our colours. Nothing to suggest she’s cheering for us.

I seethe as I turn back to the play, realizing the puck dropped without me noticing. Fuck, I have to get my head back into it.

There are some close calls, but I manage to block every shot sent my way in the first period. It does nothing to quell the urge to fling her over my shoulder and drag her out of the arena.

As we walk down the tunnel, heading to the dressing room for intermission, I can feel her eyes on me. I don’t know how I know, I just do. But I don’t look at her. I can’t.

If I do ... I don’t know what I’d do at this moment. It’s not like I can rip off my jersey and give it to her.

No one notices how quiet I am in the dressing room. I hardly ever speak outside of games, let alone during them. Whyatt tells me to get my head in the game, and I can’t even scoff.

He’s right—some of those shots almost went in because my focus was on the woman behind the bench and not on the puck.

My mind whirls as the second period begins. Even the break from the ice and trying like hell to focus cannot centre me. The more I watch her, the more possessive I feel. I tell myself it’s the game adrenaline, it’s irrational, it doesn’t make sense.

Why would she wear my jersey? Would it be worse if she was wearing someone else’s jersey? My jaw clenches. Even Paige doesn’t wear a player jersey—she’s got a Whales jersey sweater with ASHFORD written on the back.

GOAL.

The buzzer goes off loud in my ears and the lights above me flare.

Goal.

On my net.

What the fuck?

How the hell did that happen? The Boston player skates off, his team dogpiling him. In ten games, I’ve only let four goals in. Now five. All because I can’t keep my head out of the stands.

“Richard, what the fuck?” Nate, one of the forwards, skates over to me. I’m not paying him any attention, watching the replay on the Jumbotron. Holy shit. It sailed right in. I should’ve been able to save it.

I shake my head, as if that can get the woman who has set up camp at the forefront to leave. Taking my blocker off, I squirt water in my mouth and on my face, needing to recentre.

My beard itches, my chin strap rubbing the new growth wrong. One of my skates is tied a little tighter than the other. Something is pinching in my helmet.

The inner roar in my head blurs my vision.

What is happening to me ?

Everything is bugging me right now. I’ve had games like this before. It’s rare, but on an off day, I try to either sit it out or play through it and hope I don’t screw up for my team.

I’m powering through, trying to take all my agitation out on the puck and the players coming at me. I hate this fucking team. They love to crowd my space, leaving me with little room in my crease.

One of their forwards stands so close to me I can hear his disgusting breathing. It’s a dangerous place for him to be. He’s not small—almost no hockey players are small—but he’s no match for me.

Especially not when I’m this pissed off.

The puck is coming to my net, and the fucker in front tries to back up, but there’s nowhere for him to go. He slams into me, tripping us both. I see the puck coming from the corner and I extend my leg, hearing the save more than I can see it.

A Boston player tries again, but the front of my net is mayhem.

There’s an unwritten rule amongst hockey players: Don’t touch the goalie. And this fucker decides to slam into me. An all-out brawl breaks out and I’m trapped under a mass of players. The puck is in here somewhere, but no one knows where it is.

It’s an eternity before the damn refs get off their asses to blow the whistle and begin throwing players off each other. One of the Boston players knocks into me again and I’ve had it—I put all my power behind it when I smash his head with my blocker.

The whistle blows loudly. I’m getting a penalty for that, I know it.

I couldn’t give a shit .

“RICHARD!” It’s the coach. I’d give him the finger if my hands weren’t trapped in my gloves.

A player takes my penalty. If I can’t get my head in the game, they’re going to get a goal when we’re shorthanded. Two minutes. It’s two minutes.

It’s only forty-five seconds.

GOAL.

I roar. Scaring the players in front of me. Fuck. That shouldn’t have gone in. I look over as the coach yells my name again.

He’s pulling me?

I say nothing, look nowhere but the tunnel as I skate off the ice in a blind rage.

A single word pounds in my adrenaline-fuelled mind.

Mine.