He takes the puck at the blue line, gets clipped, keeps it anyway. A defender rides him hard into the boards, shoulder digging, trying to pin him. Koa spins off at the last second, reverse-checking just enough to make the guy stumble.
Theo is already there. Quick pass. Tape to tape. Dash cuts across the slot, dragging two defenders with him like bait. Koa circles high, unmarked now, the kind of oversight New York only realizes too late. Theo sends it back. The shot is filthy. Low. Fast. Precise. It threads through traffic and snaps past the goalie before anyone can even flinch.
Goal light! The arena detonates!
“Dirty play doesn’t scare this team. It motivates them. And Brooklyn just put one on the board!” Paul claps.
Koa doesn’t celebrate big. He never does. Just a sharp exhale, a nod toward Theo, a gloved fist bump with Dash that says message received and delivered.
Next shift, Aleks lines up beside the guy who hit Deacon. A nothing faceoff. A nothing play. The puck moves past them, and then Aleks’s shoulder drives into the guy’s chest with bone-rattling precision.
The hit echoes through the glass. The crowd gasps.
“Oh,” Noelle says. “That looked … illegal.”
“It was technically clean,” Nalani says, leaning forward. “Technically.”
The ref’s arm stays down. The New York player staggers up, yells something, and Aleks’s mouth curves, eyes flat. Why is that so sexy?
New York shoots, and somehow Dacon stops it. The building explodes; Savannah startles and laughs, and somehow it’s captured in three different angles on the in-house feed.
“Save that,” I tell no one in particular. “We’re using that clip for everything.”
Third period, it happens.
Scrum in front of the net. Whistles. Pushing. Someone jabs at Deacon’s glove after the whistle, sticks locked. And Aleks is there. He doesn’t throw the first punch. He doesn’t have to.
He yanks the offending player away by the collar, their helmets clash, gloves come off. Fists fly. The crowd loses its mind.
My stomach dips.
“Is this bad?” Noelle asks, eyes wide.
“For our blood pressure?” I ask. “Yes. For ratings? Fantastic.”
The ref hauls them apart eventually. Aleks gets five for fighting; the other guy does too. He skates to the box like he owns it. The camera takes a close-up. He sits, chest heaving, knuckles split, glaring at nothing. The jumbotron helpfully replays every angle.
I watch the crowd fall deeper in love with him. God help me, he is good television.
The Bears win by one in the last ten seconds. Aleks with the assist, Stone burying the winner. The building shakes.
I stand, smoothing my sweater. “Alright,” I say. “Time to head down. I have to be in interviews, and you are my crew.”
“You have people for that, right?” Lydia asks.
“I am my people tonight.” I smile. “Let’s get you all to the family area, and I’ll go deal with interviews.”
The tunnel is loud; it’s also packed with camera operators, reporters, and team staff. The air thick with sweat, cold concrete, and victory.
I flash my pass, weave through, and find a corner where the Fairfax logo hangs.
Deacon comes off the ice, hair damp, face flushed, grin wide. He spots me and changes course without hesitation.
“This is where I’m needed?” he asks, voice warm as he looks around.
“Perfect,” I say, and nod to Hildy, who was here for me but will now cover the tunnel. “Smile like that for two more minutes for the in-house cameras, and then we’ll go so you can kiss your fiancée and your baby on the ice-level family feed, and I will make sure you don’t have to do interviews.”
“I knew befriending you was smart,” he says.
