Her expression softens, something glowing in her face like I just hung the moon instead of putting a piece of rubber in a net.
Maybe I did.
Steam hits me the second I step off the ice. My jersey sticks to my skin; my pads feel twice as heavy, weighted down by sweat and victory. I tug my helmet off, shaking out damp hair, lungs burning with the good kind of fire.
Then I see her.
She’s waiting at the mouth of the tunnel, hugging her coat tight to her chest, tucked against the wall to stay out of the path of the team.
My feet slow.
The noise of the arena fades into a dull hum.
“Talia,” I say, barely louder than a breath.
She steps toward me before she can stop herself. Her eyes are huge, darting over my face. She isn't looking at the history-maker. She isn't looking at the stats. She's looking at me. Checking for cracks.
“You scored,” she breathes, the words punching out of her in a laugh of disbelief. “Declan, you actually scored.”
“I did.”
“A goalie goal,” she says, shaking her head, a smile breaking free that lights up the dark tunnel. “Do you have any idea how rare that is?”
“I’ve heard the stats.”
She laughs again, and the sound snaps the last thread of my restraint. I pull her into me.
My gear is bulky, damp, hard plastic and leather, but she doesn’t flinch. She steps right into the space between my pads, her hands finding the front of my chest protector. She smells like peppermint and vanilla, a sweet, comforting scent that is exactly what I need right now.
I press a kiss to the top of her head.
Soft. Quick. Too much for a public tunnel, but I don’t care who sees.
“You’re my good luck charm,” I murmur into her hair.
Her breath catches. I feel the tremor of it against my chest.
“The helmet,” she whispers.
“The helmet,” I confirm.
I force myself to step back slowly, my fingers dragging down her arm, memorizing the friction of her coat before I let go.
“See you after,” I say.
Her nod is tiny. Shaken.
I walk away before I do something that ruins both of us right here on the rubber mats.
Chaos. Absolute chaos inside.
Cole tackles me the second I walk through the doors. “HE SCORES! HE SCORES!”
Gio smacks my helmet out of my hand, catching it before it hits the floor. “Look at him. Look at this psycho SMILING.”
I shove him, but he’s not wrong—I am smiling, stupid and wide and real.
Dante yells something in Italian I’m pretty sure translates to “about damn time.”
