1. Axl Erikson

one

Axl Erikson

Thirty seconds.

That’s all the ticks the giant overhead digital clock has left, and the crowd chants down each digit, growing louder as the numbers decrease. I skate down the rink with precision speed, smoking past their lumbering defensemen, and I wait for our winger, Noah, to bring the puck over the blue line.

My heart pounds to the rhythm of the countdown, slamming against my rib cage with each second lost. I’ve been waiting for this shot all game.

I’m two goals in.

One more and it’s not only my first hat trick of the season but, more crucially, it’s the tying goal, sending us into overtime.

Their goalie glances at me, his charcoal eyes pinning on me with the kind of glare that leaves the taste of blood on my lips. I take an easy breath and swipe my tongue over my bottom lip, hydrating it. I’m not afraid of anything. I’ve been training for this moment my entire life.

“You got this, Axl,” I whisper under my breath as I take off with force, rerouting myself to the back of the net to get open.

“Twenty-five!” the crowd screams, and I have eyes on the puck smoothly bouncing back and forth off Noah’s stick. Even though I’m open, Noah is encapsulated with the other team, causing him to slow his speed as he fights to protect the puck. Noah’s a ninja on skates but he’s short, which makes him an easy target.

If he could get me the puck, it’s an easy shot to the goal from here.

I didn’t get this far in my career because it is easy.

Who am I kidding?

It’s never easy.

I need to get closer to Noah.

“Twenty-two,” the crowd hollers, pumping my chest full of the adrenaline I need to swoop back around the net at full speed. And because nothing ever goes according to plan, I slip, swiftly catching my fall with my free arm. I manage to right myself as I skid until my skate blade scrapes off a layer of ice, spraying the player next to me. I’m quickly blocked from moving any closer to Noah, and the crowd becomes unhinged. “Fifteen!”

Panic seeds in my chest as I scan the rink. Noah rounds the corner of the rink, miraculously keeping the puck, the other team’s defense at his heels. His skating skills could easily land him some circus on ice if this hockey thing doesn’t work out. He zigs and he zags, like he’s on the basketball court, all while maintaining the puck.

“Twelve,” the countdown chant rumbles in the arena, and my heart rockets into overtime speed. I can get open, but Noah is covered well.

My gaze snags on their number thirteen. He’s skating backwards, positioned in front of Noah. He’s enormous, the size of a Mini Cooper. There’s no way around him. I’m not superstitious, but I’ve always had a thing against the number thirteen.

Now I also have a thing against Mini Coopers.

“Ten!” The thunderous word echoes around the arena.

My lip snarls, and I make up my mind. Crouching, I dig in with my skates and rocket across the ice, eyes lasered on the black disk. As Noah glides around the back of the goal, he cuts the corner too sharply and practically lays on the ice, but he manages to stay on his skates. There’s a small gap behind unlucky-number thirteen and if I can get through it, I’ll be wide open for a shot at the net. I skate hard and lunge forward right as Mini Cooper slides over and trips on my stick. He’s so huge, his fall makes it look like I took out half the team, and the whistle slices the air.

I freeze, searching for the ref as he makes the call.

Two-minute penalty for tripping?

He jumped on my stick!

Anger fumes up my chest and bleeps out my throat. “Are you blind?” I jerk my hand toward the ref. “He crashed into me!”

The crowd erupts in rumbles. Feet pound on stands and boos reverberate off the walls.

“That wasn’t my fault!” I scream again, my free arm flying all around me in animation. My eyes hitch on Coach Carlson, whose eyes are sprouting blood-red veins that seem to pulse all the words he isn’t saying as he angrily motions me to the box. It’s a two-minute penalty, but worse than that, the game is essentially over. Fury courses my veins as I fight the urge to chuck my stick at the ref, and I spin around and skate to the penalty box.

Some days I hate this game.

As I jump in the box, the crowd erupts, but I don’t even glance behind me.

I know all the cameras are on me. They have it out for me, as I’ve made a bit of a name for myself for harassing refs. Not that it was my plan. I can’t help that they are ignorant. Coach has given me more than one warning about keeping my mouth shut. Somedays, I don’t think this career is worth it. Between the extensive travel, the social media bullying, and the constant physical abuse of my body, I’m getting sick of it.

I spit out my mouthguard, swipe my tongue over my front teeth, and fight with all my might not to run my mouth at that stupid ref.

Stupid.