Usually, this is the part where I calculate my stats.Save percentage: 1.000. Goals against: Zero. Playoff probability: 100%.But right now, all I feel is joy.
More bodies crash into me as the bench clears.
“Sinc! You’re a fuckin’ wall, man!” That’s Jamie, dogpiling onto my back.
“Get off him, you dumbasses, you’re gonna crush him!” Gino’s voice is rough and loud.
Hands are patting my helmet, slapping my pads. I’m buried under a mountain of Sasquatch jerseys. It’s heavy and suffocating. It’s the best thing I’ve ever felt.
Eventually, the weight lifts. The guys are scrambling onto their skates. I push myself up, but my arms and legs feel a little like Jell-O. I get my skates under me and stand, swaying a little.
I flip my mask up to wipe the sweat from my eyes, looking toward the bench. The coaches are on the ice now, everyone grinning and laughing.
And Louis Tremblay is wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on his face. He’s not in his pads since McWhittier and I were the tandem for today’s game. Instead, Lou’s wearing a navy blue suit that fits him like a glove, a crisp white shirt, and a red tie in the exact same shade of red as our logo.
He walks toward me with that familiar, loose-limbed, confident stride that’s just this side of too cocky.
The crowd noise changes from a roar of victory to a chant.LUUUUUUUUU.
But Louis doesn’t look at the crowd. He doesn’t look at the jumbotron. He doesn’t look at Rylan or Jamie or Austin.
He’s only looking at me.
My heart hammers a rhythm against my ribs that has nothing to do with the game I just played.
He stops in front of me, just outside the crease.
The contrast between us is almost laughable. I’m drenched in sweat, my hair sticking up in forty directions, stinking like the locker room, and encased in several pounds of pads and equipment, while Louis is pristine. He’s the polished image of success. The seasoned veteran. The respected mentor.
But when he smiles at me, it’s not his media smirk. It’s the smile he gave me in the cabin a few weeks ago when the firelight hit his face. It’s the soft smile that belongs only to me.
He extends his hand, and my mind flashes back to a few months ago, flat on my ass on the ice after he taped my skate blades. He reached a hand out to me then too. Back then, I thought he was mocking me. I thought he was pulling me up so he could knock me down again later.
But this time, I know what’s in his heart, and this isn’t just a “good game” handshake.
I look at his hand, then up at his eyes.
You’re not a guest here, Tanner. Not with me.
This man standing in front of me is so much more than the guy whose job I wanted to take from him only a few months ago. He’s become my coach, my mentor, my closest ally—not only in hockey, but in life. He’s the guy who tried to retire to make sure I stayed in this place where I was starting to feel like I belonged, where he knew I’d be successful. He’s my best friend. The love of my life.
He’s my home.
I pull my blocker off my right hand and drop it to the ice, and then reach out and grip his hand. His grip is warm and solid, grounding me as he pulls me to my feet.
I don’t let go.
“You did it, Rookie,” he says, leaning close so I can hear him over the noise of the screaming crowd.
“You did it,” I counter. “You showed me I could. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have you.”
“Nah.” Louis shakes his head, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “This crease is yours, now, babe. Listen to that crowd. This is your house. I’m just gonna live here with you.”
I shake my head again, loving how he somehow manages to both challenge me and make me feel like I’m the best goalie that’s ever lived at the same time. I tug on his hand, pulling him so he’s standing on the blue paint with me. In the goalie crease. “There’s room in this crease for both of us.”
He shrugs, that cocky smirk that I’ve grown to love curling the side of his mouth. “I can live with that.”
I pull on him again, this time sliding forward on my skates a couple of inches until our chests are pressed together. Well—his suit is pressed against my pads.
