The game was a roller coaster. Neither team could afford a loss, but somebody was going down—and it sure wasn’t going to be Tahoe West if I had anything to say about it.
Every time the camera caught Sean, my pulse skittered. It wasn’t the first time I’d watched him on TV, but tonight, he felt very much like my personal problem in HD.
We traded goals, and my heart raced out of my chest each time one of our players took the puck. Both teams were very close in game percentages, and after barely holding still, the game ended.
We won.
I jumped up, high-fiving Logan while he and Sam pulled off a celebratory side hug.
“What a freaking ride!” he shouted.
“No kidding.” I exhaled, pulse pounding.
He grinned. “One more round, and we’re Western Conference champs. That’s the Campbell Bowl, baby.”
Sam leaned in. “Is that the silver thing that looks like a spaceship that had a baby with a salad bowl?”
Logan laughed. “Pretty much. Having a baby is exactly what it’d feel like. Win it, and you get a shot at the big one—the beast. We’re so close.” He knocked his knuckles lightly against the table.
My eyes stayed glued to the screen. The postgame interview was next. Logan excused himself to hit the restroom.
“That was intense,” Sam said through a yawn.
“Breath-holding, heart-pounding. Happy we came through.”
“Me too,” she said.
Logan returned and we left the bar. He walked us to the car, hands stuffed in his pockets, the night air softer than the icy blast inside. After goodbyes, Sam drove us home, windows open. I leaned my head back and watched the city lights blur past, the echo of the win humming in my chest.
But it wasn’t just the game. It was him. That rush, that extra heartbeat, that pulled under my skin—I’d been feeling all of it for Sean. As if he needed some invisible force from me to make it tonight.
Chapter seventeen
Sean
“What a freaking three-hour nail-biter!” Ben exclaimed the moment I picked up the phone.
I was groggy, having landed around 3 a.m., and barely peeled myself off the mattress when he called. The adrenaline hadn’t burned off even after a few hours of sleep, and my head was rerunning plays.
“Don’t remember the last time I was in a war zone like that,” I muttered, rubbing a hand over my jaw. “My veins are still pulsing.”
Ben laughed. “This one’s going in the books. I had a watch party at the house; the boys looked shell-shocked when it ended. No better way to learn what real grit looks like.”
“That’s how skills are built. You’re doing them solid, Ben.”
“I try. But the spotlight is on you. One more series, and the Clarence S. Campbell trophy is yours. That’s legacy stuff, Murph.”
I exhaled. “Feels close enough to taste, but still a hell of a climb.”
“Yeah, but you’re in position, and no one deserves it more.”
That part landed hard. My body was wrecked, brain fried, but his words sparked something—an immediate upbeat. The best kind.
“And I get to call you my buddy? I’m proud, man,” he added.
“Stop, you’re going to make me sweat. Thanks, Ben.”
Coming from someone who’s been in the trenches with you, on the ice, in the locker room, that kind of praise hits deeper than most.
