Page 126 of Trick Shot

The puck hits the back of the net and Tanner loses his mind.

“Yes!” he shouts, fist punching the air. “Wooo!”

He skates a wild victory lap, stick held high like he just won the Stanley Cup.

The other rookies erupt, sticks pounding and gloves slapping backs. The energy floods back into their bodies like a revival—their joy pure and infectious.

But all I can do is stare with my brows furrowed. Because I know the truth.

Zed let it happen on purpose.

I watch him, still as a statue in his net, but his eyes are on the cheering rookies. His lips twitch—just a flicker—as he keeps watching them.

A smile.

And suddenly, I realize what he just did. That wasn’t a mistake. That was an act of mercy.

I skate back, still staring at him like I’m seeing him for the first time.

“Did you see that shit?” I ask Dom, who glides next to me.

“Told you,” he says, his eyes on Zed. “He’s not all bad.”

There’s a ghost of something in his expression. Gratitude, maybe even respect.

“Well,” I look back toward the net. “Thank fuck he’s on our team.”

The next drill starts, and the shift is immediate. Zed’s done playing nice.

Whatever mercy he offered Tanner, it was a one-time thing. Now he’s a wall again, snapping pucks out of the air and diving for rebounds that shouldn’t even be possible.

Rookies try to recreate Tanner’s shot. No dice. Zed devours every one. You can feel it in the rink—the rise of frustration again. But this time, it doesn’t break them. Now, they’ve seen it is possible. And I know this is exactly why Zed did it.

They chase that glimpse like it’s salvation.

And me? I’m everywhere. I block a breakout pass with my shin and launch it back over the red line. I drop low and hook my stick around Matt’s ankle just to rattle him. Dom calls for a D-to-D switch, and I hit him with a crisp tape-to-tape pass without looking.

During a scrimmage, Rylan cuts across the middle and tries to deke me out.

Stupid.

I lower my stance, read the angle, and lay into him with a body check so clean and hard it rattles the glass.

I’m locked the fuck in. Every muscle primed, every move clean, and behind every move is Melody. I didn’t sleep—not really. We texted until three a.m. last night, which proves me two things:

She misses me.

She wants this.

And that’s all I needed to know.

My legs burn and my lungs are screaming, but I missed this. Missed the rush. Missed the pain. Missed the sound of steel slicing ice and the boards rattling when you bury someone clean.

And right now I’m dialed the fuck in. Melody’s still in my head, but not like a distraction. She’s fuel. She’s in every stride, every hit, and every pass. And I never want her out.

The guys start peeling off the ice, sweat-slicked and breathing hard, sticks tapping the boards as they head toward the locker room.

I skate slow, dragging my blade across the blue line. My chest’s still heaving, adrenaline still spiking. I haven’t felt this good on the ice since I made the fucking league.