Something’s wrong with Jake. Usually he’s the life of the party in the dressing room. He’s always distracting me—asking questions, stealing my tape. Before Rachel, we kept our conversations limited to hockey. Now he asks me whatever the hell comes to his mind.
How do you say hippopotamus in Finnish?
What’s your favorite kind of sushi?
Not tonight. He was silent as the grave tonight, quietly going about his pregame prep—wrapping his sticks, gearing up, stretching, taping his shin guards. Now he’s out on the ice, circling like a hungry shark.
I like to watch horror movies. This is the moment in the film where the audience gets the inkling that the hero may have been possessed by some dark force. As I go through my stretching routine down on the ice, I keep glancing over at him, expecting to see the whites of his eyes.
I know Rachel has noticed too. She’s standing in the corner of the bench, tablet in hand, watching him skate with a worried look on her face. I wish there was something I could do to ease her fears.
But I can’t think about them right now. I have to focus on my game. There’s a reason the FIHA scouts wanted to come to this game. Toronto has a Finnish player too: Timo Mäkinen. He’s a right winger, and they’re scouting him as well. They want to see how he plays against me. They want to see him score on the Bear.
I like Mäkinen, he’s a good player. But hell will freeze over before I give him a point tonight. I see him now at the other end of the ice. No. 27. He’s fast. Great footwork, good puck handling. Coach Tomlin and I reviewed all his recent footage. He likes to set up his shots. If my defense can make him rush, he’ll get sloppy.
“Compton!” I shout from my spot on the ice, stretched out in a full split. “Compton!”
Jake skates over, sliding to a stop in front of me. “What?” The storm cloud brewing over his head looks ready to unleash havoc.
I roll forward onto the ice, sliding my legs back until I’m up in a kneeling position. “You see No. 27?”
He glances down the ice, eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Mäkinen. He’s Finnish too, right?”
I nod. “He doesn’t score tonight.”
Jake’s dark gaze darts down to me. “You got beef with him?”
“No. But the scouts want him to score on me tonight. You’re not going to let that happen. Rush him into making sloppy shots. Tell the others.”
He nods, still all business.
I get to my feet just as he turns, ready to skate away. “Hey—”
He turns back and I skate up, my blocker going to his shoulder as I step in. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I won’t ask. I only have one question: are you here?”
He looks sharply at me, dark brows narrowed as he scowls. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Are you here?” I repeat. “Are you on this ice tonight? Because if you’re not, I will go to Coach right now and have you benched.”
He shrugs away from me. “I’m here, Mars. I’m right fucking here.”
Against his will. I see it all over his face. He doesn’t want to be here. He’s angry and he’s scared. Something is definitely wrong.
“Why don’t you play your game and I’ll play mine,” he mutters. “That’s what you’re always telling me, right?”
“Jake—”
The whistle blows. Our time is up. We have to get into position. He skates off and I watch him go.
Taking a deep breath, I push off with my skate, gliding along the ice into the crease. I do my ritual of scuffing the ice, tapping each side of the goal with my stick when I’m done. Then I look down to my left, my gaze locked on that two-inch-thick red line. The goal line. Taking a deep inhale, I let it out, the heat of my breath filling my mask. Nothing is crossing that line tonight.
