Chapter 9

Someone thumps him on the shoulder; he looks up to find Burle there, helmet pushed back until it teeters precariously on the top of his head. There’s a faint smile on his grizzled visage, almost apologetic, as if he somehow knows what this game is doing to Christian and he’s sorry. “Time’s up,” he says, nodding at the hall. “You ready?”

The rest of the team is already heading back onto the ice. Christian tosses his drink away and follows Burle. He lets his teammate pull ahead, leaving him to trail behind. He should’ve been first, he thinks, at the head of the team, and the crowd would go wild when he entered the rink, arms raised high in victory. If this were the Bedford stadium, they’d call out his name as he skated into position. And if he had better teammates, he wouldn’t be the only one scoring to win—

“Magic.”