I meet with every coach before the game, and we talk out plays in the locker room as we get ready. Eventually, the arena will smell like popcorn with twenty thousand bodies packed into the seats. The ice gleams under the lights, fresh from the Zamboni, perfect and unmarked and waiting for me to tear it apart. I start my pregame routine, same as always. Tape my stick. Stretch my legs. Visualize the goals I’m going to score. I imagine us winning. For weeks, we’ve been undefeated.
Callan appears beside me while I’m rolling out my shoulders. “You ready?”
“Please. I was born ready.”
He studies me with that gaze that doesn’t miss anything. “You seem lighter. Happier. Like you’re getting laid regularly.”
“Focus on the game, Cap.”
He grins. “That’s a confirmation. You and Mila?”
“That’s me telling you to mind the business that pays you, which isn’t me.” I give him a smirk. “I just make you look good.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know it’s not her,” he says, fucking with me.
“Yeah? Then who?” I ask, knowing he doesn’t know anything. We’ve been careful.
He skates off, laughing, and I finish my stretches, bouncing on my toes, feeling the energy build. The crowd is already loud, chanting something I can’t make out from down here. The bassfrom the sound system vibrates through the concrete and into my bones. Tonight is going to be a good night. I can feel it.
Twenty minutes before puck drop, I’m in the tunnel, doing my final stretches, when I hear footsteps behind me.
“Have you seen Jameson?” Her voice echoes off the concrete. “He’s about this tall, really boring, and looks like you?”
I turn, and she’s there in jeans and my jersey. Hair falls around her shoulders, and the sight of her stirs up something primal inside me.
“Nope.” I glance left, then right, and she pulls me away around the shadow of a concrete pillar. “But I can take a message.”
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.” I cup her face and kiss her because I can’tnotkiss her. “You’re not supposed to be back here.”
“I have connections.”
“Dangerous ones.”
“I wanted to come wish you luck.” She grins against my mouth. “Stay in your head. And tell Damien Blackwell to fuck himself.”
“In that order?”
“Any order you want. Repeat them if you need to.”
I kiss her again, tasting the coffee she must have had. Her fingers curl into the front of my jersey.
“I love you,” I tell her when we break apart. “Now go sit with my brother and try not to have too much fun.”
“No promises.” She steals one more kiss, then pulls away. “Go get your record.”
I watch her disappear down the tunnel, hips swaying, my jersey hanging to mid-thigh, and when I skate out onto the ice ten minutes later, I feel like I could fly.
That quickly ends.
The first period is a war. Damien is on me from the opening face-off, chirping nonstop, hooking my stick, slashing at my ankles when the refs aren’t looking. I tune him out and focus on the puck, on my positioning, on the beautiful simplicity of this game I’ve been playing since I was four years old.
The ice is fast tonight, and the boards are alive with the loud crack of bodies slamming against them. The crowd roars every time we cross into the offensive zone. I can hear individual voices screaming my name. The smell of hot dogs and beer drifts from the concession stands. I try to ground myself to this moment.
Midway through the first period, I get the puck on a breakout pass from Callan, and I’m flying, legs burning, wind biting my face. The Cobras’ defenseman tries to angle me off, but I’m faster, and I blow past him like he’s standing still. Their goalie comes out to challenge, and I fake left, go right, roof it over his glove. The horn blares, and the crowd explodes. My teammates crowd around me against the boards. I’m one point closer to the record.
“That’s one!” Hunter screams in my ear, and we give each other a high five.
