“Two more floors to go. How do you suggest we pass the time?” Hunter’s grin was lazy but intense, eyes glinting, and he leaned down to capture my lips again, softer this time, savoring the taste, the closeness. I responded just as slowly, letting the kiss draw out, lingering on the small, perfect moments of contact.
We stayed like that, caught in the tension and warmth, until the ding of the next floor finally nudged us toward reality. But the electricity between us had only grown.
Even with the doors sliding open, I couldn’t resist leaning into him, his hand at my waist, our fingers still laced together.
28
Hunter
The rink was a furnace. The kind of heat that only comes from playoff hockey, bodies colliding, the fans screaming, every heartbeat a drumline in your chest. My gloves felt tight, the mask heavy on my head, the air inside it warm with every breath. Game 6 against the LA Kings and the winner moves on to Round 3. No pressure.
I shook off the lingering adrenaline from pre-game jitters, taking my position in the crease. The first period started with a flurry. LA came out aggressive, their forwards circling, testing the edges. The puck skated fast, sticks clashing, and the first shot of the night came from Doughty. I dropped low, tracking the angle, letting the pad cover the post just as the puck rocketed toward the corner. My blocker snapped it away. One down.
I caught my breath and scanned the ice. The Surge defensemen were hustling, Theo barking instructions from the blue line.
“Line up, keep the lanes closed!” I shouted back over the roar, catching the puck and sending it up to the wing. The rhythm started to settle, the play, the flow, the danger lancing through every second.
Midway through the second, the Kings managed a break. Three-on-two, speed and menace. I had to commit early, read the pass, anticipate the angle. Kopitar skated hard toward the net, eyes narrowed. The puckslid across, a pass meant to slice the defense. I lunged, extending my glove arm, and snagged it. My heart did a slow, rolling cartwheel.
Theo clapped me on the shoulder. “God, I love a man with safe hands! Give it to me, baby!”
The roar of the home fans and the jeers from the away section were a blur. My eyes caught movement in the stands. Holly. Bright, unmistakable. Her hair in a ponytail, face lit up. She was even clapping, that stupid iPad nowhere to be seen.
And just like that, every nerve in my body fired in a new way. Not just for the win, or for the team, but because she was there. Because I had one person in the stands who didn’t need me to play my best game, but wanted me to.
By the third period, the score was tight. 3-3. Every shift felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of fire. Kings had possession, cycling the puck around their end like predators. I felt the sweat drip under my mask, the damp stickiness of the pads clinging. Every shot felt faster, every slapshot a little more violent, every rebound a test of my reflexes.
Then came the power play. Kings up a man. A cross-ice feed, a wrister from the point, and I had to slide across the crease, glove snapping up just in time. My legs burned from the lateral push, but I kicked the puck into the corner. My lungs screamed, gloves sticky with sweat, but the Surge got the puck out and cleared. I could feel the team’s collective relief in my bones.
“Hang in there,” Mason nodded as he skated past me. “We’ve got this, Callahan.”
“And I’ve got you.”
The last five minutes were pure chaos. LA pressed hard, desperation in their eyes, forechecking like they had nothing to lose. I stopped a rocket from a slapshot at the hash marks with my chest, kicked another away with my skate, and blocked a backhander with my pad so cleanly it sounded like a hammer on steel. Every save was a heartbeat closer to history.
With just over a minute on the clock, the Kings made one finalpush. Kopitar swooped in from the wing, flinging a puck toward the top corner. Time slowed. I tensed, glove high, eyes tracking the spin. The puck arced toward the post. I extended my arm, palm snapping up just in time. The puck hit the glove, rattled once, and I clutched it to my chest. Heart pounding like crazy in my ears.
The horn sounded—penalty-free—but we weren’t safe yet. The Surge was still on the ice, one last line change, one last rush. I dropped to the ice to cover the rebound on a scramble, sliding across to stop a loose puck inches from the goal line. Theo cleared it. Tucker picked it up, skating full tilt, passing to Mason at center ice. I skated back to my crease, mask fogged, pads sticky, every muscle trembling from adrenaline and exhaustion.
Then it happened. The puck came up ice with a hard slap of the stick against wood. Mason faked a pass, cut left, and dumped a cross-ice feed to Grayson. He skated hard, shooting low. The Kings goalie dove, blocking, but the rebound landed perfectly in the slot. Mason streaked in, slapshot straight into the net. Goal. 4-3 to Surge.
The final horn blasted. My gloves dropped to my knees, breath jagged and shallow. The bench erupted. Guys screaming, jumping over each other, sticks clashing. My mask came off, hair damp and sticking to my forehead, and I leaned against the post, shaking but elated.
I looked up to find Holly jumping in her seat, hands flinging in the air, face flushed and radiant. She was shouting, cheering, her energy infectious. My heart just about ripped open.
The locker room was chaos after we beat the Kings. Helmets clattered, water bottles sprayed, the whole place vibrating with shouts and laughter. It felt like the walls could barely hold it in.
Grayson jumped on a bench, stick raised like a trophy. “That’s what happens when you mess with the Surge, boys!”
“Get down before you break something,” Mason yelled, half-laughing as he dodged a spray of Gatorade.
Coach barked through the noise, his voice cutting clean through it. “Hell of a finish! Pulled a rabbit out of a hat in the last period. I’mproud of you.” He slapped me hard on the shoulder as he passed. “You made them earn every inch out there, Callahan. That’s how a number one goalie does it.”
I nodded, grinning despite the ache in my shoulders. “Happy to be here, Coach.”
Mason came up to me. “Yeah, but are you happy enough to stop an incoming shot before the last five minutes of a game?”
Everyone started laughing, and a few dirty towels were tossed in my direction. I batted them off, caught the last one and zapped Mason on the ass with it.
