Page 17 of Traded
Ryker practically launches himself onto the ice like an overexcited Labrador.
“On defense—number four—Liam Kessler!”
Liam skates out with cold precision, his expression unreadable.
“At left wing—your number seventeen—Jonas Hart!”
Jonas gets one of the loudest reactions outside Carter, soaking it up with a grin and a raised stick.
“At center—number twenty-two—Ethan Cross!”
Ethan punches the air and points to our section as Katie screams loud enough to burst my eardrums. “You’ve got this, baby!”
Dylan, Mason, Tyler, Luke. All familiar, my heart swelling with each one until I’m bouncing in place and my throat is hoarse from cheering.
Then the music cuts.
One beat.
Two.
And the entire arena begins tochant.
CAP-TAIN.
CAP-TAIN.
CAP-TAIN.
Mike’s voice booms out, each word hitting my chest.
“THIS IS YOUR NUMBER NINETEEN, BLACKWATER—CARTER REYNOLDS!”
The roof nearly comes off with the force of the roar that erupts.
Carter bursts through the smoke with broad shoulders and lethal focus, skating a hard line across the ice before carving sharply toward the center. The team converges around him as we roar through the anthem and wait for the drop.
“Here we go,” I whisper.
Eighty-two games start now.
Boone skates to face Carter. Neither of them speak, both leaning forward close enough to touch.
“Now kiss,” Katie mutters under her breath.
I slam my hands over my mouth at the honk that erupts. Several heads turn our way, some filled with amusement, others with curiosity. “Stop it.”
The puck drops.
Boone steals it, but Carter is on him immediately.
They spend half the opening twenty trying to score and the other half trying to bury one another into the glass.
I mentally bet how long it’ll be before one of them gets sent to the box. Definitely before first intermission.
Midway through the first, Boone picks off a pass in the neutral zone and breaks away clean to shoot for the net. But Benji’s save isoutrageous, and the crowd explodes.
“Holy shit,” Katie shrieks. “Work those hips, Benji baby!”
