Dirty Score, A Rough Riders Hockey Novel(72)

“You believe in skill, not luck.”

The crowd surged with hope, and they both refocused on the game. But Rafe’s icy panic melted into a pool of dread.

He had the overwhelming sensation of being trapped. Trapped between his two best friends. Trapped between the two people he loved most.

And terrified he could lose them both.

“First line.” Tremblay’s words brought Tate, Rafe, and Tierney to their feet with two minutes left in the first period.

Rafe and Tate stood at the open door. Hawkins straddled the half wall leading to the rink, waiting for the second line to get close before they pushed onto the ice.

Just as they shoved off, Tierney smiled at Rafe. “Let’s go for the hat trick. You’ve got two minutes.”

As soon as Rafe’s blades touched the ice, his mind cleared of all his scattered thoughts. Noise from the stands, the announcers, the stadium, faded. All he heard was the swoosh and scratch of skates and sticks. The swat and smack of the puck. The call of voices between teammates.

And that strange haze that had infiltrated his brain since he’d walked into the stadium earlier in the day settled over him. Rafe’s body moved on the ice automatically, the way other people walked without thought. He saw the rink and everyone on it within a 180-degree view at once. Read body language in split-second increments and reacted.

With the clock sliding toward the minute mark, the Ducks’ forward, Drew Dekker, caught a rebound off Tierney’s skate blade and sprinted toward the Rough Riders’ goal. Rafe had seen the rebound and Dekker’s position to catch it a second in advance, and he was already swinging that direction when Dekker gained control of the puck. By the time the Duck lifted his head to assess his path to the goal, Rafe’s stick was already on a trajectory for Dekker’s.

He tapped the stick, stole the puck, and continued in a smooth slide, then sprinted toward the Ducks’ goal with his complete and utter focus on the goalie and every subtle move of his head, body, and limbs. Rafe kept his mind open until the very last split second, and when the goalie put more weight into his left foot, that was the side Rafe shot toward, aiming for the net’s upper corner with pinpoint focus.

In his head, Rafe swore he heard absolutely nothing but the clack, clack, swoosh of the puck as it hit the top pipe, the side pipe and finally the net.

Fucking A.

A stream of adrenaline mixed with triumph and joy. The first real spurt of joy he’d felt since he’d left Mia’s bed that morning.

Rafe laughed and glided into the corner, turning back toward center ice. But he didn’t get far before his other four teammates body slammed him in a group hug while a few baseball hats—about one percent as many as in their home arena—flew onto the ice. With the buzzers and bells and mixed response from the Anaheim crowd, Rafe didn’t hear much of what the guys said. But Tremblay pulled them off the ice for the last thirty seconds of the period.

And as he followed the others through the small doorway into the box, Rafe glanced toward the stands for the first time since the game started. Mia’s and Joe’s seats were just a few rows up and to the right of the bench, and when he scanned past the fans waving their hands and taking pictures, he found Mia. Her smile was waiting for him. And the sight of it, filled with something very different, something intimate and special, something he’d never seen there before, made him feel like a flock of birds had been released in his belly.

He stepped onto the rubber mat of the box, and something hard hit him in the chest. Rafe’s attention tore back to the bench. Tate pushed Rafe so hard, Rafe stumbled back. He almost tripped right back onto the ice through the open doorway, but caught himself on the half wall at the last second, saving their team from a penalty.

“What the fuck?” Rafe yelled, half-pissed, half-confused. Then the look on Tate’s face registered—fury. You-betrayed-me-in-the-worst-way rage. I-want-to-kill-you ferocity.

And Rafe’s stomach took a free fall.

The final buzzer for the period filled the stadium.

Tate leaned in until they were nose to nose and rasped, “Yeah, Rafe, what the fuck?”

And Tate checked Rafe’s shoulder hard, slamming him against the wall as Tate turned, leading the team into the locker room for the break.

Rafe stood there a second, his mind racing as the other guys filed by. He felt their strange looks, felt the tension vibrating among the players. And he hated it. He just didn’t know what to do about it.

Tremblay stopped beside Rafe, bit out a short “This isn’t the place to screw around. No matter how good you’re playing.”

Then fell in with the guys and disappeared through the hall.