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Noah Miller

Funny how I had hoped we would actually win a game. We were mired in a losing streak, but I thought we had turned it around.

I was wrong.

It’s been a grueling third period, where we can’t score to save our lives. We’ve had plenty of shots, but they are blocking everything we send to the net.With my knees bent, and my stick positioned to catch the puck, I skate backwards toward the opponent’s net, determined to get open. My heart expands, pounding hard against my ribcage, as I align myself with the net. My gaze bounces from their defense man to our team center, Axl, who has the puck.

Axl flicks his wrist, sending the puck soaring right to me, and I grab it on the backhand.

The crowd instantly jolts into cheers, but it doesn’t steal my concentration.

My adrenaline spikes, fueling my speed to skate into the slot and shoot the puck toward the net. Their goalie is as wide as a truck and blocks the puck, and his defenseman quickly ties me up, keeping me from getting to the rebound. Axl skates over and takes control of the puck, and this time he cuts around the back of the net and then charges out front. Determination etches in the lines of his face.

The crowd screams, and their chants create a cacophony of sound that makes my heart pound even harder. Axl shoots the puck, and it flies toward the net. Their goalie kicks out a pad in a flawless block, and the buzzer blares, signaling the end of the game. Nobody from our team shares a victorious expression.

The home crowd goes silent. Their eyes are glued on us as we skate off the ice with neutral expressions, fighting to conceal our disappointment. Once again, the scoreboard blares the truth of our failure.

I skate toward the tunnel, irritation rising as I spot the press lined up and taking photos. I don’t understand why they want pictures of the losing team, and I certainly don’t want my big mug on any social media headlines. I’m not a narcissist in any way, but my stepdad is always on my case about keeping up our image. It’s clearly more about him than me, because he’s got a lot at stake as the team owner.

No matter what I do, it’s never good enough, and having my losing face go viral is going to upset him. I turn my head as I skate off the ice and do my best to push past the barrage of cameras.One of the photographers has her phone up, and it’s obviously aimed at me. I put my hand up in front of her as I walk past, but not before she clicks the photo button.

For a split second, our eyes meet. Her feral blue eyes spiral back at me, daring me to do something, and my cheeks heat up. “You can delete that,” I growl, but she turns away, pretending to not hear me. Or maybe she is too interested in grabbing more shots of the guys as they skate in. I continue down the tunnel but shoot an angry look over my shoulder in time to catch her glancing back at me, and I repeat, “I’d appreciate it if you don’t post that.”

Her face morphs from indifference to impatience as she shows me her phone screen with the photo. "Can’t," she huffs, clearly struggling to have patience. “I’m on assignment to get photos of everyone, and I’m running out of time. If you want me to delete this one, you’ll have to stand there and pose nicely for me to get a better one.”

My eyes narrow. She seems awfully familiar. Her dark hair is tied back in a low ponytail, and she’s wearing a black sweater that does nothing to tell me how I know her. She is striking in a way most girls would dream to be—a natural beauty with no noticeable makeup—but she looks too young to be working for any news media. “Assignment from where?”

“Sports Era Magazine.” She lowers her phone. Her gaze tips toward me in a slanted angle, and she continues, “I’m doing a spread on your team, and I had a bunch of photos already, but I lost my camera last night. Now I’m cutting it close to the deadline, so I need to keep your photo.”

A shock of recognition jolts through me.

I know her.

Her fiery sapphire eyes had begged me not to make a big deal out of her condition. I was so disgusted that people were stomping on her. I wanted to scream at everyone, but those eyes begged me not to while also somehow pulling me to her.

“Hey, you’re that chick from the gala.” I flick my index finger out as my brow furrows together in concentration. “The one I pulled out of the mosh pit.”

Pink flares fire under her freckles as her lips part, and I have the exact same sensation I did at the gala. I have a strong desire to protect her.

“Hey, how are you?” I reach out to touch her forearm but yank it back as I catch myself. With everyone watching, this could easily be misconstrued, especially if a photo is taken. I don’t want to embarrass her, but I also feel terrible that I left her in the hall by herself. I had trouble sleeping last night because I kept wishing I’d stayed with her until her friends came. Those pleading eyes haunted me every time I even tried to close my own.

“I’m fine.” She dramatically crosses her arms in front of her.

I scan behind her and see that the arena is clearing out, and nobody seems to be waiting for her. “Are you here alone?”

Her eyes round, but they are unwavering as she quips back, "Yeah. I’m working, remember?”

She’s got sass. I’ll give her that. Tilting my head, I’m about to rephrase my question, but Coach Carlson calls from behind me. “Hey, Noah. Are you coming?”

“Yea, I’ll be right there.” I glance around at him and then shift back to the girl.

“Bye.” Her voice is monotone. Unengaged. Irritated?

What did I ever do to her . . . except rescue her.

“Make sure you delete that photo,” I call over my shoulder as I make my way down the tunnel.

“I’ll get right on that.” I sense a tad bit of sarcasm in her voice but don’t turn back as Coach has his gaze pinned on me. I pick up my pace to the locker room, ready to get an earful of “tough encouragement.”

Not by the coach. Carlson is a great guy.

But by my stepdad—Bill Baker.