Breaking the Ice

Chapter Eighteen: Welcome Distraction

Marcus's POV

The cold air inside the Maple Ridge Arena bit at my cheeks as I skated to the face-off circle. The scoreboard loomed above, glowing a daunting Hillcrest High Hawks - 3, Lakeview High Lions - 2 with only six minutes left in the third period. The crowd was alive—Hillcrest fans banging drums and waving flags, while Lakeview supporters clung to hope, shouting encouragement from the packed bleachers.

I adjusted my helmet and glanced over at Peter, stationed at left wing. Peter met my gaze and gave a small nod—the kind of look that said, We’re not done yet.

Carter's gaze locked onto mine as a smirk pulled across his face. He was fast, ruthless, and smart, but I knew how to make all of that crumble like dust in my hands. I had shadowed him all game, but Carter had already notched a goal and an assist. Still, I wasn’t ready to let this slip away—not with Peter on the ice beside me, and not with a position in the division finals on the line.

My eyes automatically scanned the crowd, seeking out a pair of brown eyes in the rival stands. The moment my eyes found hers, the surrounding air seemed to boil a bit and, for a split second, I wanted to rip off my helmet and rush over to her.

"Head in the game, McKay!" I heard the coach yell across the ice just as a hand slapped on my shoulder.

Peter and Damien skid to a halt in front of me, both pointing their hockey sticks at my chest. Damien nudged his chin to the crowd and then shook his head. "Welcome distraction, but not now bro. We're behind and we need to turn this around. Leave the summer love for after when we're celebrating, yeah?"

As I opened my mouth to respond, they both pushed off in the opposite direction as the buzzer sounded for the game to commence.

The referee dropped the puck. I reacted a split second faster than Hillcrest’s center, snapping it back to our defenseman, Taylor, who dumped it behind the net. The play reset, but the pressure remained. Hillcrest’s forecheck was relentless.

“Stay tight!” I called out as we regrouped in our zone.

Peter flew along the boards, collecting a loose puck chipped out by Taylor. He dodged a hit and darted up the ice with startling speed. For a moment, it seemed like Peter might try to take it alone, but he spun at the blue line and waited. I was right behind him, tapping my stick.

Peter slid the puck across just in time.

I caught it, weaved around a defender, and let it rip—a wrister aimed just above the goalie’s glove. The crowd gasped, the puck clanged off the post, and the rebound bounced out to the slot.

Carter was there first.

With effortless poise, he scooped the puck, circled behind his net, and launched a stretch pass to his winger. Within seconds, Hillcrest was on the attack again.

Time ticked down: five minutes, then four. Our coaches cycled the lines, trying to find the right combination. But every time it seemed we were close, Carter shut us down. He skated like he had a sixth sense of where the puck would go next.

With three minutes left, we drew a tripping penalty. Our chance.

Coach Levin, along with my father watching closely beside him, leaned over the bench. “Marcus, Peter, you’re up. Let’s make this count.”

We jumped the boards as the power play began. We moved the puck cleanly, probing Hillcrest’s penalty kill. Peter stationed himself at the left circle, his stick ready. I danced along the blue line, eyes scanning for a c***k in Hillcrest’s armor.

I found it.

A fake shot opened a lane—I slid the puck low to Peter, who instantly one-touched it back to me. The defenseman bit, and I threaded a cross-ice pass through the legs of Carter to their right-winger, Nash, who fired.

Goal. 3-3.

The Lakeview crowd exploded, shaking the rafters. But there was no time to celebrate. Overtime loomed, but I felt it—we had momentum now.

With ninety seconds left, Coach Levin called timeout. The players gathered, panting and dripping sweat.

“Let’s go with the McKay play,” the coach said. “Marcus at center, Peter and Damien on the wing. Play smart, but if the lane opens—go.”

Damien and Peter shared a nod while looking at me. Our minds were synced from years of street hockey in the driveway and early morning practices. We didn’t need words.

Back on the ice, Hillcrest looked rattled. Carter still burned with focus, but the shift in energy was unmistakable.

The puck dropped. I tied up the opposing center, and Peter swooped in, taking control. He accelerated down the right side, curling behind the net as I trailed into the high slot.

Damien absorbed a hit, returned possession to Peter, who then spotted me coming in.

He reversed direction suddenly and left the puck behind him—a move we’d perfected in practice but rarely used in a game.

I picked it up clean, deked left, then went backhand.

The goalie bit on the first move.

I roofed it.

Goal. 4-3.

Lakeview’s bench erupted. Helmets flew, gloves hit the ice, and the buzzer blared. Fans leaped to their feet as I was mobbed by teammates, Peter was the first to reach me, then Damien wrapping me in a tackle.

We’d done it.

From behind, Carter stood with his stick resting on his knees, chest heaving. His eyes met mine for a fleeting moment. Something flashed there that gave me the impression that he was about to rush over in fury. My chest became tight as Carter made a small shift in movement, but a silhouette suddenly blocked off my line of vision as the heavy bodies around me suddenly parted and lifted off me.

"Give her some space guys!" I heard Peter shout as beautiful brown orbs were suddenly within a breath away from me.

"Hey," Anna breathed as she offered me a hand and I pushed myself to my feet. "Great game," her eyes shifted a bit until I suddenly reached my hand to cup her chin.

Those brown eyes were now like molten chocolate with specs of what looked like stars dancing within them.

One beat. Two beats. Three beats.

We just stood there, looking at each other, until her eyes glazed over and the next thing I knew, warm, pliant lips were meshed against mines and everything around us went dark. Silent.

All that mattered was the warmth that exploded in the pit of my stomach as my free arm wrapped around Anna's waist and her fingers dove into the matted mess on the hair at my nape. Neither of us knew how much time had passed until I felt a tap on my shoulder and the warmth of Anna's lips left mine.

"Could you give me a ----" my words broke off as I found myself standing off with my father, Richard McKay, and Anna's father, Elias Donovan, standing gobsmacked beside him.

"Oh s**t," Anna gasped.

That was the understatement of the year....