Page 91 of Grizz

Thirty-two.

That’s enough time to break your heart in ten different ways.

Tanner is out here with me, and the second we’re circling toward the dot, I angle toward him.“This is bullshit,” he says, eyeballing the enemy.“Number 15 has been taking cheap shots at you all game.”

My eyes turn toward the Wolves’ bench, then back to him.He’s breathing hard too, but he’s always calmer than I am, like his anger goes through a smarter filter before it reaches his mouth.

“Yeah,” I mutter.“Refs got blinders on tonight.”

I jerk my head toward the corner where it’s been happening.The cross-checks after whistles.The nasty behind-the-play elbows when the play is in transition.The stick taps that aren’t taps.The kind of shit that bounces off because of the adrenaline but you’ll sure as fuck feel in your body the next morning.

“He clipped me behind the net,” I hiss.“Then he slashed Coen and—”

“I know,” Tanner cuts in, voice firm.“I know.But listen to me, now’s not the time to retaliate or do anything stupid.”

He glides closer, shoulder almost bumping mine.

“We get back at him by lighting up the scoreboard,” he says.“Tie it.Then we win it in overtime.”

The simplicity of it is refreshing.I take a breath, deep enough to hurt, and my visor fogs for half a second before it clears.

“Yeah,” I say, though my blood is still boiling.“Yeah.Fine.”

Tanner’s mouth twitches.“Good.Because you’re about to win this draw.”

The ref skates in, lines up at the dot.He’s the only calm person in the building.The noise swells again—fans chanting, stomping, screaming—an avalanche pressing down on the ice.

I set my stick, knees bent, shoulders loose the way I’ve always been since taking face-offs as a little kid.The Wolves’ center squares up across from me, eyes hard, expression carved from stone.My world narrows to the dot, the puck, the next second.

The ref drops it and time snaps back into motion.

My stick chops down.I win it clean—feel the little impact as the puck skitters backward—and our defenseman snaps it to Tanner, who receives it on his forehand.He makes a move, a quick shift of weight that sells one direction and takes another.A Wolves’ defender bites, and Tanner is past him in one smooth cut, hips square, edges sharp.

The crowd explodes—anticipation, not celebration yet, but that rising howl that saysgo, go, go.

I take off.

I’m already hustling to the far post, head up, scanning lanes, legs burning.I can feel the clock without looking at it, like it’s a pulse behind my eyes.

Twenty.

Nineteen.

Eighteen.

I yell, loud enough to cut through the roar.“Tanner!”

And I tap my stick on the ice—once, twice—hard.A beacon.Actually, a demand.

Tanner sees me.I can tell by the way his shoulders lift, by the way his head turns a fraction.But the passing lane isn’t there yet.The Wolves have bodies stacked in the slot, sticks down, trying to suffocate anything that breathes.

So Tanner shows why he has a reputation for high hockey IQ.

He skates a little higher, toward the blue line, drifting up and out like he’s going to pull back and reset.It’s subtle, but it drags defenders with him.Their formation stretches.Their heads turn.

And in that stretch—

I’m alone.