Louis’s grin widens, that dazzling, movie-star smile that radiates pure joy.
“Good,” he says. “Because the coach comes with a really nice condo and a slightly judgmental lizard.”
“I think the lizard likes me,” I say.
“Everyone likes you, Sinc.” He kisses me again, quick and hard. “Now, get me off this ice before I break my other shoulder and Carson fires us both.”
I keep my arm wrapped tight around his waist, taking his weight as I guide him carefully toward the bench. He leans into me, trusting me to keep him upright, and the sensation settles deep in my bones.
Not a guest.
We reach the gate, and I hoist him up onto the rubber matting before climbing off the ice myself. I sit on the bench next to him and start unbuckling my pads, my hands shaking a little.
Louis watches me, sitting close enough that our arms are pressed together. He doesn’t say anything, just offers a silent,steady presence while I strip off the armor that’s kept me safe and isolated for so long.
When I’m finally down to my compression gear and skates, I look at him.
“Ready to go?” I ask.
Louis stands up and holds out his good hand. “Yeah. Let’s go home.”
I take his hand. We walk out of the cold rink together, leaving the lights off and the ice empty behind us.
Epilogue
Six Weeks Later: The Final Game of the Regular Season
Tanner
Ten seconds remaining.The clock above center ice isn’t a clock anymore. It’s a countdown to a detonation.
Ten. Nine. Eight.
My heart is pounding so loudly I’m surprised the crowd can’t hear it. Sweat stings my eyes, blurring the edges of my vision, but I don’t blink. I can’t. The puck is in the corner, Gino battling for it with two Dallas forwards. He slams one into the boards with a bone-rattling crunch.
Seven. Six.
I drop into my butterfly, my knees dug into the chopped-up ice. My adductors are screaming. My hamstrings are tight wires ready to snap. I’ve faced forty-two shots tonight. Nothing has gotten past me. That’s not gonna change now.
Five. Four.
The puck squirts loose. I track the black blur.
Three. Two.
The shot comes. High glove side. It’s a desperation heave, but it’s fast. I react. My glove hand snaps out, catching the puck with a satisfyingthwack.
One.
I hold on to that damn puck like it contains the secrets of the universe, freezing the play for the final second.
Zero.
The horn sounds, long and loud, as eighteen thousand screaming Seattleites roar as they lose their minds with excitement. The glass rattles, the boards shake, and the very bones in my body seem to be vibrating with the tidal wave of joy that has descended over the arena.
I’m still on my knees in my crease, the puck still clutched in my glove hand. I don’t even get a chance to raise my arms before I’m swarmed by the five guys on the ice with me.
We did it. We clinched a playoff spot.
