So she’s gone—slipped into the crush of the crowd, leaving nothing behind but the echo in my chest.
The locker room is chaos—steam rising from showers, guys hooting and hollering, music blasting so loud my ribs vibrate. Chase is in the middle of it, shirt half off and dancing until Hutch sprays him with a water bottle. The whole place rattles with victory.
“Walton’s acting like he didn’t just finish a sitter I handed him,” I call, snapping my towel out against his calf.
He yelps and hops away, grinning like an idiot. “You sad you didn’t get the finisher, Pookie?”
“Pretty sure Miller got the finish,” Hutch cuts in, smirking as he chugs the rest of his drink. “Saw him finish that poor bastard on the boards in the second period.”
The whole room erupts again, someone chantingPooks! Pooks!until I’m half-tempted to throw my glove at them, but instead I just grin, shaking my head.
Coach Benson steps in, arms crossed, and the noise dims fast. The respect for this man runs bone-deep.
“Good win,” he says. “Home opener’s a bitch to play, and you boys earned it.” He sweeps a hard look around the room, pausing on Chase long enough to make the guy sober a little. “Enjoy it tonight, but don’t get comfortable. The league doesn’t give a damn about the last game.”
“Yes, Coach,” echoes around the room, rough but unified.
Benson’s gaze cuts back to me for half a beat with sharp and wordless approval, before he turns toward the door. I let out a silent sigh of relief, especially after last season and how badly we were playing.
The noise ramps back up once he’s gone. Someone cranks the music higher, Ryan’s being pulled toward media, and everything feels loud, messy, and golden. The kind of victory chaos you don’t forget.
By the time I’ve showered and stepped into the quieter hum of the tunnel, it’s already dulled into a low thrum in my veins. Eli’s name echoes down the hall as reporters call for him, and I don’t doubt Tamara’s waiting on the other side of security. Charlie will be there for Jake, Zoe for Chase. Everyone’s got someone.
Except me.
As I slide into the driver’s seat of my truck, my phone rings. Right on cue. I almost let it go to voicemail, but that only makes it worse later. So I answer.
“Lucky win,” Dad says, and for half a second, it almost sounds like pride, until the next words drop. “But you let their winger get too deep on that second-period rush. Could’ve cost a goal if Hutchinson hadn’t bailed you out.”
My grip tightens on the wheel. “We won, Dad.”
“Doesn’t mean you played clean. Watch your positioning, and don’t get sloppy with your stick. The refs will call that if you’re not careful.”
I sigh. “Okay.”
“And that cross-check? You can’t let chirps get the better of you, Logan. They’ll bait you into penalties every time.”
My jaw flexes because that bastard deserved more than what I gave him for what he said about Lulu. “It’s not about chirps. It’s my job to protect my guys.”
He exhales like I’m missing the point. “Your job is to play smart hockey. Leave the heroics to someone else.”
The call ends the way it always does—nogood job,noI’m proud of you.Just a list of what I could’ve done better.
The silence in the truck afterward feels louder than the crowd ever did, so I drive home with the windows cracked, the Denver night spilling in. Dusty’s probably curled on the couch waiting, the only one who’ll care I’m back. My one constant, who never asks me to be anything more than his guy.
Sure enough, the second I push through the door, Dusty barrels down the hall, his wet nose pressing into my palm, tail wagging hard enough to shake his whole body. Warmth punches through me, loosening something my dad’s voice always knots tight.
I barely get my jacket off before there’s a knock at the door, quick and urgent. Dusty bolts over, nails skittering on the floor as I frown. It’s too late for deliveries or visitors.
When I pull the door open, Lulu’s standing there, water dripping from her hair, white top plastered to her skin, denim shorts drenched. The lacy outline of her bra peeks through—yellow flowers stitched across the cups, delicate and defiant. Her eyes go wide, mortified when she registers my stare, arms folding across her chest. Her words tumble out in a rush.
“Hi—I’m so sorry—it’s just, a pipe burst, my kitchen’s—there’s water everywhere. I didn’t want to wake Betty, and I knew you’d be back late from the game, so—”
“Where?” I cut in, already stepping past her onto the porch, with Dusty quick to follow.
She blinks. “My—my kitchen. Under the sink, it’s spraying—”
“Show me.”
