Paul grunts. “Look at his eyes, he’s reading every Philly player like he already knows their next ten plays, and he does. That’s what a veteran has that the rest of the players out there don’t have.”
I look at Paul, and he gives me a wink. I fight back tears because of what he did for us; I still can’t believe it.
My eyes are drawn back to the screen when I hear a reporter say, “Moretti, fans want to know how ready you really are. Considering your age and concussion history…”
Paul groans. “Here we go. Philly reporters. Always digging for drama like raccoons in the trash.”
Deacon keeps his expression stone cold. “My age is not the story. I’m cleared. I’m ready. As a team, we had a setback in Boston, but that doesn’t mean we’re not going to win here tonight, because we are.”
I should not be staring as hard as I am. I should not be imagining the weight of those shoulders pressed against me. Ishould not be remembering the way he whispered good morning like he was demanding the day to be exactly that… for me.
Right now, he looks like a storm in human form, and I am weak, exhausted, and emotional. Paul’s gift and the reason he gave it to me, Nalani’s joy and the fact that she is possibly happier than she was when she and Koa worked through all their struggles in record time, and the worry about Sofie? All that doesn’t lessen the fact that I am a hormonal human woman, and Deacon is a man who not only looks like that, but carnal knowledge that he surpasses every fantasy I ever had about him.
The reporter keeps poking. Deacon keeps shutting him down. Then he says, “When I’m ready to talk about the cause of my missing games, I’ll be giving an exclusive to Sofie Fairfax.”
Sofie nearly chokes on her garlic knot. “What the fu—” she looks down and Savannah—“Fudge is he talking about?”
I shrug instead of saying I have no idea, because I do, thanks to Paul.
The moment the interview ends, the camera shows him skating to the goal and tapping each post with his stick.
Paul points at the screen with his cane. “You see that. That right there is a ritual. That is a goalie saying the crease is his to protect, and any forward who enters it better be prepared.”
He is so proud of him, it makes me smile.
They leave the ice and dive over the boards, and the first line replaces them.
“Marshall’s taking first?” Sofie asks the question we all want to.
“The Italian doesn’t give a damn what order he starts the game; he’s the kind of man who will finish it,” Paul says, looking at the screen and not me, but I know those words have two meanings.
The puck drops, and I am fully vested in this game, unlike the last few. The Bears are playing with renewed energy. They’replugged back in now that Johnson is gone. Their hope and drive are back, and I know it has a lot to do with Moretti being back in play.Same.
It’s still 0-0 when they switch lines. It’s not typical for the goalies to switch with them, but the Bears have their own way of doing things.
The camera pans out, and you can see Marshall sitting on the bench, locked in, eyes sharp, studying Deacon like he’s teaching a masterclass. No jealousy like there was when Johnson was on the bench, it’s all respect. He wants to learn from him, to grow his game.
“This is the first time the team has truly looked like they are the number one team in the league,” Paul says, eyes on the screen.
“They’re tied with Philly,” Sofie states.
“Not for long, Sassy. Not for long.” Paul chuckles.
“Thanks, poppa obvious,” she says in the voice she uses, a voice usually reserved for Savannah, who giggles.
Paul rolls his eyes but is clearly amused by her.
A Philly forward breaks through, passing Dash and Rivera, then breaks through the defenses, Giroux, and Foster, and swings for Philly’s first real shot tonight.
Deacon catches it clean, and Paul hollers. “That is how you do it. Glove like a damn vacuum cleaner.”
Sofie raises her slice. “Cheers to vacuum hands.”
I try not to quell my excitement, and for the most part do so. But God, he’s incredible. Big, strong, fast, and so confident. And that confidence, that power, that takes no prisoners ownership of his job, of the moment, of the entire damn game, is… distracting. Very distracting.
The team cycles through a beautiful play; their speed is back, their passing is crisp.
Every shift looks purposeful.
