Page 137 of Trick Shot

We’re doing breakouts next. I line up, Zed in net, glaring like Satan.

Dom skates up beside me, but we don’t speak. Haven’t since that night. On the ice, he passes clean, talks when needed, syncs with me—a total professional.

But off the ice? Cold as death.

We have a ritual—we tap sticks before each game. Now the only thing my stick is tapping is the fucking ice as I stare at him. Every inch of me wants to get up, grab him by the collar, and force the conversation. I’ve tried to talk to him more than once, tried to get him to at least hear me out, but he can’t even look at me once we step off the rink. It’s not his anger that gets me—it’s the damn silence. We’ve never been like this. And I miss my fucking best friend.

I fly down the ice, stick-handling, sharp turns, body moving on muscle memory while my brain replays Melody’s voice from last night, telling me she misses me.

I almost drove to Dom’s house and demanded to have this out. But I promised Melody I wouldn’t. We talked about it. She asked me to give Dom space and time to process it and, hopefully, accept it.

I reluctantly agreed. Because I know Dom. I know he needs time to cool off before his brain starts working properly again. Because right now, it’s fueled by fury.

But I’ve been fucking drowning every second I don’t spend with her. And the only thing keeping me afloat right now is the thought of her in the crowd at our first game in a couple days.She promised me she’d come, that she wouldn’t miss it, that it would be my opportunity to finally talk to Dom.

And fuck, I need him to listen.

The lights of the arena are a thousand volts against my pupils. The roar of the crowd swells around me, thick and pulsing—bodies slamming into seats, bass vibrating through the floor, EDM pounding from the speakers as fog cannons blast white smoke across the ice. Cameras swing and fans scream as the anthem fades. The announcer's voice is a war drum.

“And starting on defense… number 18, JACE BROOKS!”

The second I step onto the ice and my blades bite the surface, adrenaline crackles in my bloodstream. I breathe for this—for that muscle memory, the packed arena, and that deep, familiar buzz in my bones.

I do a warm-up lap, fast and sharp, feeling the blades carve into the ice. The other team’s stretching out on their side. One of their wingers is already eyeing me like he wants to make a name for himself tonight.

Good. I hope he tries.

We run through the usual drills—passing, shots on net, quick sprints—and then it’s time. The refs step out. The players clear the ice except for the starting lines.

The lights lower slightly, the music fades to a hum, and the puck gets carried to center ice. We line up. I drop into position, crouched low. Tanner’s to my right. Dom’s on my left. He hasn’t spoken to me outside of what’s necessary for the team. But as the ref skates over, puck in hand, Dom glances sideways, straight at me… and taps his stick against mine. Once. Clean and sharp.

My throat tightens, and I look at him, but he’s already facing straight ahead as if nothing happened. I press my lips together to suppress the smile.

We’re getting somewhere.

The ref’s about to drop the puck, but I’m not looking at him anymore. I’m scanning the stands, heart in my throat, wondering where on earth—

There.

First row, slightly off-center. My girl. She’s leaned forward against the railing, eyes locked on the ice, and then they find mine. For a second, everything else vanishes as she smiles at me. And not some little half-smirk or polite nod—no, she lights up, and so do I.

I haven’t seen her in ten fucking days, and right now, every part of me is screaming to drop my stick, jump the glass, and go straight to her.

But I can’t.

Not yet. I have two games to win—one against the Tampa Phantoms, and one against her brother.

I’m drenched in sweat, everything clinging to my chest like a second skin, mouth dry as fuck, legs on fire.

Coach calls the final shift.

“Brooks, you’re up again. Moreal, go with him. Hold the goddamn line.”

My lungs burn and everything hurts in that perfect way where pain becomes background noise. But I jump the boards like I’m fresh.

Zed doesn’t need a reminder. He’s already standing tall in the crease like a gargoyle. He’s been waiting for someone to really try him all night, but they’ve only got a minute left. One minute to try and break through him.

And it’s not gonna fucking happen. That man hasn’t let a single puck past him all night. Not one. He’s a fucking monster back there.