Page 43 of Crease Collision

Slowly, he raises his head and looks directly at me. His mouth curves into a smile, and his eyes catch the light. Amazingly, I can see them well enough to think they’re blue.

Fuck. I know they’re blue.

My knees wobble so much I nearly topple over, but I catch myself. Two goalies can’t go down in the same game.

This is impossible.

Oskar’s been on my mind for so long I’m imagining things. Since August, I’ve seen phantom versions of him in crowds and dreamed about him at night. Now I’m thinking he’s in the Fury’s crease.

What did the announcer say his name is? Just Oskar, right?

No. Fuck me. He said Oskar Olofsson. My lips start tingling as I look back down the ice. Oskar’s still staring at me.

Holy fuck. It is Oskar.

Memories flash through my mind—the bright sun at the baseball game, him kissing me in the pool, me watching him crumble at the Imagine memorial.

And… Holy shit. Him on top of me, sweaty and grunting. The last time I saw him, he was eating breakfast in my condo.

Then I left town, a goddamn coward.

Oskar is a goalie?

My stomach twists so hard I nearly puke.

“Mercer!”

I look up into a ref’s face.

“You all right?” he asks. “If you’re sick, get off the ice. If not, we need to play now, or I’ll have to call a delay penalty.”

The teams are in position for a faceoff, and Oskar has his mask back in place.

“I’m fine,” I say, trying to sound like it. “Ready to go.”

A minute later, every man on the ice is in our zone, and a shot comes through traffic from the point. I see it late, react slowly, and get a shoulder on it by dumb luck. The puck kicks into the corner.

“Shit,” I mutter.

The game keeps moving despite my need to process whatever the hell is happening with Oskar. I try to reset during an icing call. Tap my posts, left then right. Focus on the basics—track the puck, see the angles, square to the shooter, and read the release.

But there is no clean read anymore. There’s only Oskar in the Fury’s net, and that fact will not let me have my attention back.

Oskar must be as surprised as I am. We exchanged names, but since he was fresh from Sweden, he wouldn’t have known who Kai Mercer was. I’d let him think I was a regular guy with a condo and a seasonal job.

I think he lied, but did he? Did I?

No. We just didn’t say.

Or was that the lie?

The Fury storms into our zone again. I’m late with my challenge, too aggressive and out of position. Their winger sees it, pulls the puck across his body, and slaps a shot toward the goal.

Up glove! I’ve got it.

The shot clears my glove by an inch, and the horn sounds like a loud, personal attack.

Condors 2. Fury 1.