On the ice.
Barrett is going to have a stroke.
“Of course she brought glitter,” Oliver mutters beside me.
“Why wouldn’t she?” August asks, amused and totally in love as he watches her. “It’s only the NHL. Totally normal.” He beams proudly like this is the best moment of his entire week.
Lumin pumps both gloved fists at the crowd, then points her giant fuzzy face right at our bench. She gives a little shimmy—her signature move—then pantomimes ripping open a shirt like Superman. The crowd roars.
“God, I love her,” August says, hand over his heart.
We all laugh, but honestly? We all love her. She’s the perfect person to be our team’s mascot. The energy she brings is unreal. She skates to the blue line and waves her wand dramatically toward the tunnel where we’re waiting to take the ice.
A spotlight hits the tunnel entrance and the announcer booms, “Aaaand now, here they are, YOUR ANAHEIM STAAAARS!”
Fire cannons shoot sparks. Lumin points at us like a general sending her troops into battle and damn, my heart is sprinting.
This is it.
Game time.
The puck drops, and the game kicks into high gear. I skate hard, focusing on every play, every movement on the ice. The adrenaline courses through me like fire, and I find my rhythm, letting instinct take over. It’s what I was born to do, where I feel most alive, except this time, there’s something more grounding, something deeper guiding me through this game.
I feel the energy of the ice beneath my skates as I move, the sounds of sticks clashing and skates carving lines into the surface mingling with the roars of the crowd. Each play builds on the last, and I’m in the zone, fully immersed in the game. But it’s hard to ignore the knowledge that this is the first time Connor is watching me play live, his tiny face pressed against the glass. It’s like having a punch of adrenaline firing through my veins, fueling my every stride.
I catch a glimpse of him amidst the whirlwind of bodies and colors, wearing my jersey, looking like he belongs right here with me on this ice. If the energy of the arena was electric before, now it’s a full-on storm. Connor bounces up and down, fist pumping the air after a good play. And every time I glance in his direction, it reignites something deep inside me, a fierce need to show him what it means to be a part of this world.
Cincinnati makes cheap shots every chance they get but we’re matching their intensity shift for shift. Griffin gets into it with their winger. Barrett makes a save so wild the entire arena loses its mind. I block a shot with my thigh that’s going to bruise in colors I don’t even have names for.
Every time I slam into the boards near our side, I hear Connor yell, “LET’S GO STARS!”
Every time I look up, Harper is there, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, hands clasped together like she’s trying not to scream.
We’re halfway through the second period, tied 1–1, bodies already bruised and breath fogging in the cold air as I lean over the boards waiting for my shift. The Scavengers are playing dirty tonight, , late hits, the usual garbage. It’s the kind of hockey that makes my adrenaline spike and my vision sharpen, especially when they’re going after certain players. Roche can hold his own, we all know that, but that doesn’t mean he deserves the gang-up.
From behind us, Coach shouts, “Meers, Ollenberg, Blackstone, go.”
I vault over the boards, blades hitting the ice clean, and force my brain into that narrow, ruthless tunnel where all that exists is the puck and the play.
But as we cycle through the neutral zone, something pulls my attention like a tug in my chest.
Front row.
It’s Harper.
She’s leaning forward, her eyes locked on me. Antoni and Connor are beside her, but she’s the only one I see. And then…holy shit.
She does it.
The signal.
Two taps to her heart, one to the glass.
Tap-tap…touch.
My breath catches so fast it almost knocks the wind out of me.
Jesus, fuck.
