Page 125 of Trick Shot

Glove save.

He snatches the puck out of the fucking air like a fruit fly.

“Told you,” I mutter, skating up behind Tanner. “Should’ve tried black magic.”

Zed flips the puck lazily out of his glove and tosses it back.

That’s what makes him so fucking terrifying.

“Let’s go again.” Dom circles back.

“We’ll break him,” I mutter.

“Will we though?” Tanner mutters back. “I think he’s not human.”

We line up for another run.

Dom wins the faceoff clean, flicks the puck back to me. I corral it, fake a slapshot, then send a stretch pass to Dom flying down the slot.

He dangles one of our defenders, cuts hard left, and fires it low glove side.

Zed drops like a guillotine.

Pad save. Puck kicks to the corner.

“Fucking hell,” I whisper.

The mood on the ice has shifted.

The vets are dialed in, we’re pushing, sweating, chirping like always. But the rookies? They’re dying.

One by one, their shoulders start sagging, their passes go soft, their shots become aimless. They’re not even skating hard anymore—not because they’re tired, but because they’re fucking defeated.

No matter how fast they cut through the zone, no matter how clean the play or how pretty the assist, nothing touches that net.

Zed doesn’t just block shots—he erases hope.

The kid from Michigan, Rylan, misses wide for the third time in a row and actually mutters, “What’s the point,” before circling back to the line.

Even Tanner, cocky little shit that he is, is quieter than usual.

I watch him skate up beside me for the next rush. His jaw’s clenched, his shoulders tight, and his confidence—the spark he had this morning—it’s cracking.

He’s breathing hard beside me. Kid’s got hands and speed, but his confidence is tanking with every goddamn save Zed makes.

“Tanner,” I mutter low. “Next one is yours.”

He nods, barely hearing me.

Coach calls the play, we take our positions, and the puck drops.

Rylan wins it again and flicks it back to me. I catch and send it wide to Tanner, who takes off like a shot, blades carving deep, eyes locked on Zed like he’s chasing a phantom.

He goes wide, cuts hard, and winds up. But I already know there’s no way it’s going in with Zed in the crease. Not unless the fucker dies mid-save.

Tanner fires. It’s a good shot—fast, tight, chest-high. Zed’s glove is already waiting for the puck, but then, almost unnoticeable, he moves it away just a hair. Not slow enough to make it obvious, but slow enough to let it through on purpose.

What?