Page 34 of Ricochet

Awesome.

The rest of the team heads out of the rink, peering back at the three of us over their shoulders, probably gossiping on their way down the tunnel.

Nate, Stone, and I skate up to the red line and await whatever fate Coach has in store for us. He waits to speak until the last of the other players are off the ice, so that can’t be a good sign.

“You three are staying late today. I want another hour from all of you.” There’s an angry vein throbbing in his temple as he glares between us. “I don’t know what the fuck has happened to have you all playing like dogshit this last week, but it ends now.”

“It’s notmyfault, Coach,” Nate grumbles.

“You’re their captain, Simmons. Everyone on this team is your responsibility.”

He sighs and nods. “Yes, sir.”

“I mean it,” Coach says. “One hour. Don’t get off this ice a second sooner.”

He skates away, leaving behind a silence that buries a chill deep into my bones colder than the ice my blades are digging into. Even with Nate here, this is the most alone I’ve been with Stone since the party. We haven’t spoken a word to each other when we’re not on the ice. With the tension that’s been growing between us every day, it’s no wonder we can barely complete so much as a simple fucking pass.

Nate spins around, pinning us both with a look that says he’s clearly not happy to have to stay late, knowing full well it’s all mine and Stone’s fault.

“Do you two have some shit you need to fight about first?” He leans on his stick, waiting. “Please, go ahead. There’s no one here to stop you. I’ll let you go at it until the ice is covered in both of your blood if that’s what it takes.”

I glance at Stone, then immediately look away.

He doesn’t say anything, and I refuse to be the one to answer that.

“Fine,” Nate says. “Passing drills then. Goal line to goal line. I’ll be trying to disrupt your passes. We’ll stop when you can get ten past me in a row. Got it?”

I roll my eyes. If that’s the deal, we’ll be here much longer than an hour.

The three of us skate off to the goal line at one end of the rink, Stone and I both picking up a puck and controlling it all the way down. Once we’re at the line, we stare at each other. Waiting. Sweating the other one out until one of us gives up their puck.

“I swear to fuck, fuckers! Why don’t you two just take your dicks out while I grab the measuring tape?”

A smirk passes over Stone’s face.

The next thing I know, he slaps his puck in my direction. I’m forced to abandon mine in order to take control of it. As soon as I do, we’re racing off down the ice toward the other goal line. Stone matches my speed.

I pass to him.

Nate slaps the puck away.

“Focus, Hayes!” he shouts at me. “Imagine his tape is his face if that helps.”

It might.

I pick up another puck, and we start again.

It takes nearly the entire hour before we get up to eight passes without Nate blocking them. On the ninth, he steals it at the blue line and takes off on a breakaway toward the goal.

Stone and I don’t even look at each other, but we move together. Simultaneously, we race off after him. As we approach the crease, Stone barrels into him before he can take a shot, his shoulder hitting Nate’s. They battle for the puck, and it bounces across the ice. Stone’s the one who recovers it before sending it right to my stick with a backhand pass.

I take off, and Stone follows after me.

We pass it back and forth.

Ten times.

Then I shoot it right into the back of the net.