Todd squeezes once and lets go, rubbing his palms on his slacks. “This is torture,” he mutters.
“You love torture.”
“Not this kind.”
I nudge his knee. “You’ll survive.”
He doesn’t answer—because the commissioner steps up again, card in hand. My heart stops. Todd stops breathing.
And then?—
“With the next pick in the NHL Draft, the New Jersey Devils select—” He pauses for a beat that could kill a man. “—Logan Brooks and Todd Shaw.”
The world explodes.
Todd makes a choking sound, half laugh, half sob. I grab his arm before he can fall out of the chair. He grips my jacket like he needs me to keep him tethered to the planet.
“Logan,” he whispers, voice shaky. “Did he—did he say?—”
“Yes,” I breathe. “He said both of us.”
The cameras swing our way. People are cheering. The Devils staff is waving for us to come down. It’ssurreal.
Todd’s still frozen, eyes shining, lips parted in shock.
“Todd,” I murmur, touching his cheek. “We did it.”
He blinks hard, then nods—once, sharp and emotional—before surging forward and hugging me so fiercely the air leaves my lungs.
The crowd roars. We pull apart just enough to look at each other, breath mingling.
This is what it feels like to be alive.
He laughs. “We’re fucking Devils.”
“We’re fucking Devils,” I echo, grinning like an idiot.
We stand. Cameras flash. Reporters lean forward. Hands shoot out to shake ours as we make our way down the aisle.
My fingers brush his again as we walk, and without thinking, he hooks his pinky with mine for three steps—just three—but enough to steady us both.
On stage, the GM grins as he hands us our jerseys, a promise printed in red and black. Todd looks at his name stitched across the back, then at me.
“Together,” he murmurs.
“Always,” I answer.
And as the crowd erupts again, as cameras flash, as the world catches fire around us—I realize something crystal clear: This isn’t the peak.
This is the beginning.
