Free Empty Net by Avon Gale

out. Or off the team. Or beat him up until Laurent didn’t feel anything at all.
    Be quiet, Saint. He heard Isaac’s voice and his words, even though Isaac wasn’t there. And it helped him to breathe.
    “So it’s up to you,” Samarin continued. “This time, and only this time. So. What is your decision?”
    Laurent raised his head and thought about it. He wanted to be worth whatever was making Coach Samarin give him a concession—or whatever made Isaac Drake turn around and come back when he heard Laurent sobbing in the showers. He hated playing hockey, but he didn’t hate Isaac.
    He raised his head and met Samarin’s dark stare with his own. “I’ll play,” he said, his voice as even as he could make it. “And I’ll get a shutout.”
    Coach Samarin’s mouth quirked into the smallest of smiles. “I’ll hold you to that.” Laurent thought he looked pleased. Then his expression smoothed, and he waved Laurent out of his office.

Chapter Eight
     
     
    LAURENT WAS going to be a mess. Isaac just knew it.
    The game in Asheville was one of the nastier games of hockey Isaac could remember, even more so because he was watching instead of playing. And that was hard, because he wanted to be playing. Seeing those assholes in their black, blue, and orange uniforms made him angry, but being on the bench and watching Denis St. Savoy was like torture .
    He wanted to leap over the boards, skate across the ice, and put his fist in St. Savoy, Sr.’s mouth. Like that bench brawl in Toledo last season, only he wanted his whole team to dog-pile that sorry excuse for a man and beat him to a pulp, like he did to Laurent.
    That was violent and inappropriate, but Isaac couldn’t help it.
    He wondered how Laurent felt, playing his old team with a new one in front of him that didn’t like him all that much. The outward hostility had cooled somewhat since Laurent was making an effort, but he still wasn’t the easiest guy to get to know.
    And the guys knew that Laurent playing his old team was a Thing, even if they didn’t know the extent of it. Isaac had yelled at them on the bus, during warm-ups, and in the locker room during intermission to go out there and demolish the Ravens, and of course they wanted revenge for the playoffs the year before, so they didn’t necessarily need Isaac egging them on.
    When a team was knocked out of the playoffs, they typically beat that team the next time they met, and that game was no exception. The Spitfires scored three goals before the end of the second, and no matter how many fancy plays the Ravens ran or how many insults they hurled at the Spitfires or their new goalie, they couldn’t find the back of the net with a floodlight.
    And for the first time, Isaac saw just how good a goaltender Laurent was.
    He was amazing.
    Isaac was a good goalie, and he had a lot of natural grace and flexibility to thank for that. His stature wasn’t as broad, and he wasn’t as tall as most goalies, so he’d improved his speed and flexibility to compensate.
    But as he watched Laurent, he was amazed the guy wasn’t in the NHL. In practice and during drills he’d been fine, but it was hard to measure a goalie’s talent when you had an entire hockey team skating and shooting pucks at him. Even the year before, when Laurent was in net for the Ravens, Isaac didn’t remember seeing that sort of performance from him.
    I threw those games in Asheville.
    Laurent was way better than the performance he turned in during the playoffs.
    And he was as quiet and reserved in the locker room as always, but with more intensity and focus than his usual standoffish or prickish persona. He was also hot as fuck, with his thick dark hair all sweat tousled and his fair skin stained red from exertion.
    In the second period intermission, no one said a word to him, but it wasn’t because they didn’t like him. It was because of superstition. Laurent was well on his way to a shutout, and referencing it in any way was bad