My gaze drifted, looking for distractions. Cassy and Abby came to mind. They were probably curled up on the couch, Cassy wearing her “Uncle Sean is a Big Deal” shirt that Abby had custom-made for her, their faces lit by the glow of the screen as they waited for the game (my personal cheerleading squad from afar). That image helped.
So did the flash of movement behind the bench. Mel.
She was here, but nothere. Her stride had been measured, clipped in a way I hadn’t seen before. She adjusted her jacket, smiled thinly at the equipment manager, then eyes on her iPad again. Even though it was game day, when each team member felt some degree of nerves, I could tell something was off.
The Mel I’d traveled with had been all charged forward motion. Quick to ask, quick to act, quick to engage with the staff. Now her shoulders stayed tight, the air gone out of her. She did the task, hit her marks…but the fire was gone, the beam of a lighthouse cut mid-rotation.
Her parents.
The thought landed out of nowhere. I hadn’t spoken to her the last three days, but the shift happened after she told me they’d arrived. I couldn’t guess what happened, but I knew the look of someone holding it together. I’d worn it too often not to recognize it in someone else.
“Coach,” Sergei called, skating by.
I snapped back. “Let’s go, boys.”
The game was a blur.
Physical, fast, one of those tight matches that left no room for thinking. We scored first, Colorado answered, then we went up again. A slow-motion trading of blows between two heavyweights. Brent took a hit that had me gripping the boardshard enough to turn my knuckles white. Colton banged in the go-ahead goal halfway through the third. I didn’t sit down the entire period.
And then the horn came.
Final score: 3–2. We won.
The arena erupted, sticks clattered, gloves flew. Asher and Logan collided in a bump of adrenaline, and the team surged into a pile of arms and shouts.
My body went still. I couldn’t quite catch up to reality. Did that really happen? My eyes almost sweated—the salty, blurry type of sweat when something hits you straight in the heart.
Second round. We were still in this playoff.
I turned toward where Mel was. Her shoulders had relaxed a little, a looseness you get when the pressure finally lets go, like a perfectly uncorked bottle of champagne. Our gazes met, and I let myself walk toward her.
“We’re heading out to celebrate,” I said. “You should come.”
Her smile was small but sure, her shoulders unhitched as if she’d been waiting for the invite.
“I’d like that, ” she said.
I didn’t bother to explain. It was a team thing, and she’d been part of this win as much as anyone. I hoped this outing brightened her a little.
The celebration usually happened at a chain sports grill that hadn’t updated its decor in decades, but it retained a certaincharm. Posters of old games lined the walls, neon beer signs shone overhead, and a jukebox glowed in the corner—a relic of someone refusing to retire.
The team took the usual semiprivate area. Booths shoved together, tables crowded with fries, sliders, and pitchers of soda and wings. The postwin energy radiated from everyone. Even the kitchen staff peeked out, chasing a hit of the high.
Mel sat at the far end of the table, wedged between Sadie, the team captain Asher’s girlfriend, and Reena, Porter’s fiancée. She leaned in with a small smile as Sadie razzed Brent on his failed celebration, then took a sip of her cocktail before tossing her own soft jab that made the whole end of the table laugh. After that, she listened again, letting the others run with it.
She slid into the celebration as if she’d been part of it all season, silently making a statement that she wasn’t some temp passing through. And hell, that was attractive.
At a nudge to my side, I turned to see Dane grinning, his wife perched on his lap. His grin said you’re staring. I caught myself and focused on Colton recapping his goal. But my focus kept drifting to Mel.
She’d accepted a second drink earlier…maybe a third. She didn’t seem the type to unwind with alcohol, but my alarm bell—courtesy of my dad—was doing a little jig.
Her laughter had gotten easier. She tilted her head as she listened, actually giving a crap about what people were saying. When her eyes landed on me from across the table, I locked gazes with her, and it seemed as if she’d figured me out. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
There was a freeze in the air, the half second before a puck drop, and suddenly that gut-deep feeling you get when you know you’re about to be knocked sideways.
As the celebration thinned and people filtered out in pairs and threes, I caught up with Mel near the door.
“Heading home?” I asked casually.
