Another pause. Then, softer, “Okay. I’ll do that. But Harrison…you know that your life is your life, right? You can still have a family and play hockey. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”
I think about Connor, who, I’m certain, is currently pressing his palms flat to the glass, eyes waiting to track every player like he’s memorizing everything about each one of them.
“I owehim,” I say. “And that’s enough for me.”
I hang up before he can argue and send a quick text to Harper before tossing my phone into my locker, lacing up my skates, and heading to the tunnel to be with my team.
Me
I love you. See you after the game.
The Anaheim Starshome crowd is deafening tonight.
The last home game of any regular season usually is, but this one feels bigger, like the air is thicker in here or something.
Maybe it’s playoff energy.
Or legacy energy. The kind that crawls under your pads and settles into your bones and you can just feel that this is going to be a fantastic game
The Chicago Red Tails line up across the ice during warmups, familiar faces staring back at us. Any other time of day, we’re all friends. Good friends. Some of ours are married to some of theirs so we consider ourselves family. We always have. But when we’re on the ice they’re competitors and we have every confidence that we’ll tear these birds apart one feather at a time.
Colby Nelson circles the blue line with that calm, lethal authority of his. Milo Landric snaps shots like he’s already in a rhythm. Dex Foster’s chirping Bodhi from center ice like they’re not about to beat the hell out of each other, which I find amusing. Dex isn’t getting any younger and I have no doubt Bodhi will skate rings around him. At least he better, or Dex will pound him into the boards. Hawken Malone and Quinton Shay are skating tight loops like they’re nothing but coiled aggression, and Zeke Miller taps his stick against his pads, eyes sharp.
It’s going to be a fight, that’s for sure, but there’s no way it won’t be a fun one.
And I’m in the mood for a good fun fight.
The puck drops and Chicago comes out hungry.
Milo Landric wins the face-off clean and the Red Tails surge into our zone like they’ve been waiting all night to break us. Colby Nelson hits a shot from the high slot less than ten seconds in and Barrett flashes leather, his glove snapping shut with a sharppopthat sends the crowd into a roar.
“Is that all you’ve got?” Barrett yells. “My grandma shoots harder than that.”
Milo points at him. “You better enjoy it now, goalie. I’m just warming up.”
“Yeah?” Barrett fires back. “Try warming up your aim.”
The Red Tails crash our zone again, Dex Foster barreling down the boards like a freight train. I do what I do best—and what I know will piss off Dex—and step into his lane, planting him into the glass.
Boom.
“Careful there big guy,” I say, circling him. “You’ll dent the boards with that ego.”
He snarls but I see the humor in his eyes. “You always this mouthy, Meers?”
“Only with the guys who skate like toddlers.”
The puck shoots loose and Bodhi scoops it up, pushing play the other way, and we transition fast. Oliver streaks down the right wing, August cutting middle, and I trail the play, timing it just right.
“Hit him!” someone yells from the Chicago bench.
But it’s too late.
Oliver drops it back to me at the blue line and I wind up, ripping a slap shot through traffic. It deflects off Hawken Malone’s shin pad and whistles wide.
“Nice block, Malone!” I call. “You okay? Need a Band-Aid?”
Griffin jams the rebound on net and Chicago scrambles like their skates are on fire.
