I smile wide. “You can very kindly fuck off.”
“Glad you’re back,” he tells me, giving me a pat on the back.
“Me too.”
He laughs and moves on to bother someone else, but his words still linger. He’s right. Tonight is about hockey. Everything else—the scandal, the suspension, the week of chaos—needs to fall away when I step on the ice. It will still be waiting for me when this game is over.
Then again, Coach has never had any issues with my off-ice activities. He knows I handle my shit better than anyone else on the team. Hockey, for me, is the one time the real shit in my world doesn’t matter.
Except for Kendall. She’s my everything.
Coach eventually comes in for his pregame talk, and the room goes still. He looks tired—because it’s been a long-as-fuck season—but his voice is steady as he runs through the game plan. It’s standard—nothing we haven’t heard before. But when he finishes with thex’s ando’s, he pauses.
“I’ve coached a lot of teams,” he says. “Won handfuls of championships and lost plenty of them too. But I’ve never coached a group of guys who fight harder than you do.” His eyes move around the room, landing on each of us. “Whatever happens tonight, I’m proud of this team.”
His gaze stops on me.
“All of you.”
It’s not an apology because Coach doesn’t apologize. But it’s something, and I give him a nod that he returns before he walks out.
Hunter whistles low. “Did Coach get emotional?”
“Shut up and grab your helmet,” Callan says. “We’ve got a game to win.”
The tunnel is loud with the roar of the crowd, and when we take the ice for warm-ups, the noise hits me like a fucking tidal wave. The arena is packed, every seat is filled, and I can feel the energy crackling through the building. Our fans know what’s at stake, but they also know what’s possible.
I skate lazy circles, and the crowd goes wild, screaming my name. I smile at them and scan the stands until I find her.
Kendall is in the family section, wearing my jersey, and even from here, I can see her watching me. Addison is beside her, along with my mom and dad, and Jameson. A few seats ahead, I spot Nick Banks with his arm around his wife, Julie. The man who mentored me like an older brother until he retired. He tips his head at me, and I tap my stick against the ice twice.
For luck. For her. For all of it.
The horn sounds, and we line up for the opening face-off. The Washington Kodiaks center is a big bastard named Volvo, or something close to that, who’s been talking shit all season. He grins at me across the circle, and he’s missing three teeth in the front.
“Ready to choke, Cross?”
“Ready to lose?” I smirk.
Callan shakes his head at me.
Volvo gets pissed, and before he can respond, the puck drops.
The Kodiaks are physical, targeting me every chance they get. I take a hit along the boards that rattles my bones and anotherin the corner that sends me spinning. Every time I touch the puck, they’re on me, doing everything possible to keep me off the scoreboard.
That’s when I realize there isn’t a person on the other team who wants to see me score.
Seven minutes in, I get a breakaway. The crowd rises to its feet, and I can hear them screaming as I move left and pull back for the shot. The goalie gets enough of his pad on it to deflect it.
Fuck.
The period ends 0 to 0, and I’m already sore from the hits I’ve taken.
Second period is when everything falls apart. It’s almost like I don’t recognize the team I’m playing with, but I shake it off.
The Kodiaks score twice in five minutes, and the arena is so quiet. I can feel the energy draining, and I can see the doubt on my teammates’ faces. We’re down 2 to 0 with a period and a half to play. Not impossible, but not good either.
I’m carrying the puck through the neutral zone when I see the hit coming—Kodiaks defenseman, six-four and two twenty, coming at me from my blind side. I try to brace, but there’s no time. His shoulder catches me square in the chest, and I go down hard, helmet bouncing against the ice, stick flying out of my hands.
