The puck rockets off my stick and then there’s a split-second of silence.
And then…
GOAL!
The red-light flashes. The horn blasts and my ears ring as the arena explodes around us. Our bench empties and my teammates swarm me, helmets slamming, arms squeezing, Oliver yelling, “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” right into my ear.
I laugh, breathless, my heart pounding, every muscle in me buzzing.
And somewhere above the chaos, Connor is jumping so hard Antoni has to grab him by the back of his hoodie. Harper’s on her feet, hands to her mouth, eyes shining bright enough to blind me.
Holy hell. I love this feeling.
The press room is still vibrating with leftover adrenaline from the overtime win. Cameras flash, reporters chatter, and my heartbeat is only just falling out of game-mode.
But my mind isn’t anywhere in this room.
It’s down the hallway waiting to see whether Harper texted back.
Waiting to see whether she’s actually going to come.
I keep shifting my phone in my hand under the table like a teenager hiding contraband but there’s nothing yet. Just the read receipt on the single message I sent.
Me
Locker room hallway after the game. Just show security your pass. Connor will love it.
I’ll love it too.
Coach finishes talking, and suddenly the spotlight shifts to me.
“Questions for Harrison?”
A dozen hands shoot up, but there’s one I recognize immediately. Blakely Rivers, front row, sharp blazer and even sharper eyes.
Of course.
“Meers,” she says, already half-smiling like she knows she’s about to make me work for this. “Walk us through that final sequence in overtime. You passed up a clear shooting lane and went rogue with a little trick play. Was that instinct? Or were you reading the defense?”
Normally, I love this stuff. I can break down a play for hours. But right now, I’m painfully aware of the fact that every second I spend talking is a second Harper could decide this was a mistake and walk right out of the arena without seeing me.
“Uh—” I clear my throat and force my hand off my phone. “Yeah. They were collapsing their coverage on my side. I knew if I waited half a beat and shot straight, their defense would bite so it was just rhythm, really.”
Way too many words. I need this to go faster.
Blakely tilts her head. “So, you’re saying it wasn’t planned?”
“Right,” I say immediately. “Not planned.”
She raises a brow like she’s surprised I haven’t gone into a ten-minute explanation. “Okay… then?—”
My phone buzzes.
My pulse leaps. I force myself not to look yet, because I know the second I do, my expression will give me away.
Blakely continues, “Can you comment on the team’s momentum shift after the second intermission? What changed?”
“We—uh—” I blink, brain stalling. “Talked. Reset. Cleaned up our structure. And Cunningham reminded us all he hates the Scavengers more than he hates conditioning skates.”
