The rink seemed massive as my blade hit the ice. The college rinks weren’t that much smaller than this one, but it still seemed like an ocean comparatively.

It kicked off before I had a chance to settle in and flashbacks to when I ruled the ice stormed through me. I shook it off as though that wasn’t me. Another lifetime I didn’t want to allow myself to experience again. To fall in love with again.

I did as Ryan instructed and evaded, circling as if I was about to make a move that no one knew about but me.

By the third and final period, my team was missing left and right. Wake the fuck up, losers. I was clearly put in with the weaker bunch. I felt insulted—I was never the outcast. Everything I did, I gave my best or I moved on.

Shaking my head, I took position and waited. I’d had just about enough of being creamed by the opposing team. I moved across the ice, buying time as I assessed the scoreboard and the clock, my state of mind shifting aggressively. The math in my head following the execution plan. On average, it takes one point three minutes to get from one side to the other with intervenes. Another fifteen seconds, give or take to steal back if you lose it.

And given the declining clock—I just barely had time for both.

I banged my stick twice on the ice and glided past the team. The puck was sent my way by whoever number seventeen was and I shot—watching it fly into the net as the goalie hit the ice in a hard effort to block.

Huh, twelve seconds to spare—I hated being off. Even when it was to my benefit.

I avoided the cheers; it was all a blur anyway. My eyes, ears, my entire body was focused on getting that puck away from numbers eleven or twenty-three in the red and white suits.

I could tell I was getting too close when eleven pushed me against the board as he maneuvered.

It hurt.

But not enough to crumble and let him get away with it.

I leveled and pushed off, ignoring the teammates, didn’t matter which they were on, even the colors were a blur at this point. I stole the puck and had one goal and it was just a few feet away—with a quick glance at the board, I calculated my strides and distance. I was going to make it with seconds to spare. It was quite the skill to separate one part of my brain to count, while the other focused on dodging interventions.

Until I was slammed into again and my puck was gone.

Damnit.