Tonight could see Boston into the Stanley Cup Final. Hockey was the furthest thing from his mind.
His phone sat dark in his locker. Superstition or cowardice, he didn't examine which. If she wasn't coming, he didn't want to know yet.
"You good?" Chase dropped beside him, already suited. "You look like you're walking into battle."
"We're closing out the conference finals."
"Which should make you happy, not look like you're contemplating mortality."
Liam finished taping. "Did Jane say anything?"
"About what?"
"Never mind."
"We're doing this." Chase leaned back. "Jane's being very tight-lipped about whatever you sent, and she's enjoying watching me suffer."
"Good."
"You're both infuriating." Chase stood, adjusted his tie. "Fix it. Jane's worried, which means I'm worried, which means you owe me."
Morrison dropped onto the bench across from him. "Ready to close this, Cap?"
"Ready."
His phone buzzed.
Georgia
She's here.
His hand tightened.
Georgia
She's wearing it.
Breath left his lungs.
She came. She was here. She was wearing his name, sitting in his family's box where everyone could see.
She'd said yes.
Liam stood abruptly. His legs needed movement, energy with nowhere to go yet. He paced to the far end of the locker room and back, stick in hand, channeling adrenaline into focus.
"Cap?" Varlenko was watching him, half-dressed in his gear. "You good?"
"Yeah." His voice came out rough. "Let's go to work."
Warmups. The ice felt wrong under his skates—too soft, too slow, or maybe that was just exhaustion making everything harder. Liam took his usual route: stretches, edge work, shots on goal. His body knew the pattern even if his mind was elsewhere.
Third level. Center ice. The D'Arcy box.
He couldn't see faces from here, but he knew the layout. Front row: his parents, Georgia. Behind them, whoever Charles deemed worthy of proximity to the family name.
She was up there. Wearing his jersey.
She'd put on his name and walked into his family's box in front of every camera in the building.
