Jerkbait Read Online Free Page B

forwards into the boards. I was already rushing down the ice. I might not have been the best player on our team, but I was fast as hell.
    Smitty fed the puck to Raiden, who tapped it back toward Robbie. Barely two steps, and Robbie sent it back to Raiden. We’d practiced this play hundreds of times. I’d scoot up the outside and slip in, giving it my best slap shot with Robbie there to catch the rebound while Raiden screened the goalie. If the goalie knocked the rebound out, Raiden would do everything he could to shove it in. We had a sixty-one percent success rate.
    “Tristan!” Raiden yelled as he passed me the puck.
    The puck connected with my stick and I took off toward goal. The crowd got louder the closer I got to the goalie. The sound of cheering and screaming was addictive. Thinking of the game as a performance revved me up.
    The goalie made his move, scooting forward out of the crease, glove out. I envisioned the goal, just high of his blocker. Flashing lights, everyone cheering, especially Heather, who afterward might give me a congratulatory kiss. I pulled my stick back for a slap shot.
    “TRISTAN! HEADS UP!” my brother screamed.
    The hit came so fast, I didn’t know what direction it came from. My feet left the ice and I flipped onto my back, sliding until I slammed into the boards, hard. From the ice, I saw who hit me: a six-foot-three defender named Kris Jones who was just coming off a seven-game suspension. It might as well have been a freight train. A sea of booing washed through the arena. I glanced toward one of the refs before getting up to see if he’d call it—he didn’t.
    As I scrambled to pick myself up, Robbie scooted between players, puck miraculously in his possession. The goalie moved toward Robbie, challenging him even farther out of the crease than he’d done with me. Just like me, Robbie lifted his stick. Tension weighted the air; everyone sucked in a breath. Robbie toe-dragged a good two feet to the side then flicked the puck up top shelf so fast the goalie couldn’t raise his glove.
    The goal horn blared. Everyone screamed. Robbie did this little boogie he always did for his goal celly, fists pumping and hips wiggling. I glanced at the scoreboard: not even twenty seconds after the puck dropped, and Robbie already made it 1-0.
    My eyes moved to one section of the arena that was sectioned off as an unofficial press box. A lot of scouts were typing away at their laptops, a few on their mobiles. I scanned the crowd. Our parents would be watching somewhere. At least our dad would be watching; Mom would be on her iPhone. I couldn’t see either.
    We circled Robbie, tapping each other on the helmet and back before Robbie led us to the bench, fist bunched and bumping past the other players.
    “Good choice, Robbie,” Coach said, rubbing and clapping his shoulders. “Smart move.”
    I sat on Robbie’s other side. Coach looked at me and gestured down toward the end of the forwards. I slid to the end of the bench. I’d be on the fourth line for the rest of the game.
    “It’s all right, Butter,” Coach said once we changed lines. Everyone on the team had at least one nickname. If you were really good, sometimes you had two or three. I wouldn’t have minded Butter if it weren’t for the reason. When we were freshmen, our then team captain said, “We should call you guys Butter and Margarine.”
    “What? Margarine?” Robbie had asked. “Why the hell am I margarine?”
    “Because,” he’d said with a grin, “you’re Better Than Butter.”
    As the game progressed, my time on the ice lessened. I was no longer the gimmick; I now was on the fourth line, dumping and chasing the puck, blocking pucks before they could get to our defense, let alone Janek.
    When the end buzzer came, earning us a 3-1 victory—Robbie earning a goal and two assists—I exhaled with relief. Thank God it was over. We skated out to Janek, tapping him on the helmet per tradition before going back to the locker