Page 103 of Hold Me Tight

After ten more minutes, the players file off the ice as the starting lineup is announced. The puck is dropped and the game gets underway. As soon as it does, the noise fades and the rest of the world narrows to hockey.

It’s filled with quick shifts, clean passes, and hard checks.

It’s tight from the start.

Every line grinds it out, and every play becomes a battle. No one can say Maverick isn’t on fire tonight, and I’m matching his energy with every shift. Since we’re both defensemen, we don’t go head-to-head, but when our paths cross at the boards or at the blue line, neither of us hold back. There’s pride in how we play. A mutual respect threaded into every shove, every sharp pass, every clean check.

But then the energy shifts. It would be impossible not to notice the extra hits that come my way. Or the elbows that get thrown after the whistle and the subtle jabs behind the play.

At first, it’s nothing major. It’s just enough to piss me off.

But that’s to be expected in a tight game.

What’s not anticipated?

That it’s coming from my own teammate.

Zane.

Initially, I second-guess my suspicions, figuring it’s accidental and I’m reading into things.

But then he catches me with an elbow as we pass on the bench, and shoves me harder than necessary when there’s a skirmish near the crease. He mutters something just out of earshot of the refs.

I grit my teeth and keep my head down. The guy is trying to get under my skin, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he hit a nerve.

No matter how much I ignore him, he refuses to back off. During a board battle, we get tangled again. Only this time, there’s nothing subtle about it. His shoulder drives into my ribs. It’s sharp and deliberate. The air gets knocked from me, and I stumble, twisting around with a glare. But he’s already skating off. There’s nothing playful or remorseful about the look he throws over his shoulder.

It’s cold and calculated.

The guy is trying to rattle me.

Shake my focus.

For a moment, it almost works.

Until I glance up and find Callie. She’s watching from the suite, hand resting on Nora’s back. Her wide eyes are locked on mine and flooded with concern. Somehow, they manage to do the impossible and ground me.

I take a moment to center myself.

This game might be personal, but so is everything I’m playing for.

At every opportunity, Zane keeps pushing. He throws slashes that ride higher than they should. Knocks me off the puck any chance he gets. Elbows me in tight scrums when the refs aren’t looking.

I take every cheap shot and dirty play.

As hard as it is, I don’t retaliate.

Not yet.

During the media timeout, Oliver glides up beside me. “Hey, Thompson. Check out the Jumbotron.”

I look up, and there they are. Callie and Nora, front and center, caught by the camera.

The announcer’s voice booms through the arena. “Looks like number twenty-three has his own fan club in the house tonight! Check out those matching jerseys. Talk about too cute to handle!”

The crowd erupts, the noise vibrating through me. Nora grins so big it lights up the whole damn screen, and her arms flap like she’s ready to take flight. Beside her, Lilah, Rina, and my sister are laughing.

But it’s Callie who captures my attention. Our gazes lock, and my heart clenches so hard it feels like it might burst. She gives the smallest wave, her smile hesitant, discomfort evident beneath the spotlight.