Page 35 of Dangle

The weight of someone’s gaze crept across my shoulders. Instinctively, my eyes slid to Trey first. Gone was the bright, shining face. In its place, what could only be described as confusion.

“Mercer and Kovalenko settle in for the face-off. Both first lines…”

“Mercer takes the puck, knocking it back to Machiavelli, who passes to Samuelson. Samuelson to Morrison. Morrison back to Mercer.”

The crowd chanted, “HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS! HAWKS!”

“LET’S GO, MERCY!” Trey and his teammates yelled.

My eyes turned to the scoreboard.

Tied at four.

Ninety seconds left.

Puck bouncing tape to tape. Nighthawks in control. Aiden, Shane, and Gavin working their way into the crease.

Methodically, with surgical precision. Like a Recon unit infiltrating enemy territory. Every line of sight tracked, every lane tested.

A press forward.

A pull back.

Clock dwindling.

The sound of a blade smacking the puck, then breaking, ricocheted through the arena.

A collective deep breath.

The roar of the crowd merged and played with the sounds of the horns and the flash of the lights.

“NIGHTHAWKS WIN! NIGHTHAWKS WIN! NIGHTHAWKS WIN!”

“What a goal! " I don’t know how they did it. Aiden Mercer smacked the puck so hard his stick broke.”

“And his long-time friend and fellow rookie, Shane Morrison finished off Mercer’s effort!”

“And what an effort from the dynamic rookie duo and their veteran linemate.”

“What an effort from the whole team. The first two goals were scored by their second and third lines. That’s depth, people.”

“And that depth paired with the talent and energy on the first line just worked. The Nighthawks pulled out a win no one expected them to.”

Pandemonium broke loose.

On the ice.

The team lost their shit. Sticks, gloves, and helmets flew into the air, landing on the ice like confetti. Players fell to theirknees. The jumbotron showed sweat-soaked faces that seemed to disguise tears of victory, joy, and elation. The team swarmed Aiden and Shane, who were wrapped around each other, eyes closed, both of them looking into the rafters.

Across the arena.

The Manchester players were back to screaming like banshees and beating on the wall below the open windows, accompanied by the crowd stomping and beating the glass, their voices loud enough to rival a Katie Carter concert.

In the suite, Asher and Bauer were shaking each other, then hugging, then jumping up and down, and screaming at the top of their lungs. Priest and Cam wolf-whistled, and the rest of us watched.

TEN

SLONE