I set a hand on his knee, letting him feel the warmth without demanding a response. “They’ll understand. Even your coach. They know how hard this has been for you.”
The buzzer sounded, taking Landon’s reaction with it as the game began. Our discussion died with the first slap of the puck against the boards. My attention shifted to the screen, heartthumping as the Hurricanes darted past the Surge defense. Within minutes, they had the lead. The scoreboard glared at us: Hurricanes 1, Surge 0.
Landon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm. I mirrored him, though I kept my hand over his, squeezing lightly. The Surge refused to give in, circling, pressing, each forward battling the Hurricanes for every inch. The energy in the broadcast translated into the apartment. My palms itched for a drink, a snack, something to hold, but I stayed with Landon, letting the tension pulse through both of us.
A fight broke out midway through the first period. Gloves flew across the ice, sticks tossed aside, and the two players wrestled in the neutral zone, trading punches with no hesitation. Landon’s jaw clenched, and I noticed the twitch in his fingers. My other hand found his shoulder, resting there, offering what I could while the Surge fought, teeth grit against boards, determination in every motion.
The second period opened with a series of near misses, shots barreling against the post, saves by the goalie that had my stomach twisting. Then Mason broke free on a breakaway, skating past defenders with a speed that made me hold my breath. He snapped the puck past the goalie’s pads, and the scoreboard flicked to Surge 1, Hurricanes 1. I leaned back, letting a laugh escape, shaky and relieved. Landon exhaled sharply, eyes still glued to the screen.
Intermission brought a brief lull, enough for us to breathe. I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his to steady him, to steady both of us. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he let the vulnerability seep out for a beat before his lips quirked into a half-smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For what?”
“This is the second time I’ve kept you from a game. I keep messing up your streak.”
I caught his gaze, letting my hands slide to his face. He tensed briefly, then softened as I held him there.
My thumb traced the line of his jaw. “For once in my life, I have something I love more than the Surge. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than right here, on this couch, with you.”
His eyes went misty. He sniffled it away, and pointed at the TV. “We should— Game’s on.”
The third period began. Twenty minutes of relentless play. The Surge pressed, and Hurricanes countered, each possession a battle, each save a small victory. My nails dug into my palms, adrenaline coursing with every pass, every collision along the boards. Landon’s fingers wrapped around mine, squeezing with each missed shot, each near-goal.
Bodies slammed into the boards. Players tumbled. The Surge recovered, pushed forward, fighting with an intensity that pulled me upright on the couch, leaning against him as if he could anchor the electricity. The puck slid across the ice, and Grayson intercepted, weaving through defenders, releasing a shot that clanged against the post and slid in for the winning goal.
Surge 2, Hurricanes 1. Tie series 3-3.
The couch shifted as Landon grabbed me in a hug that morphed instantly into heated, urgent kisses. I pressed against him, letting the relief, the joy, the triumph wash through every inch of my body. His hands tangled in my hair, lips claiming mine with a repetition of “We did it. We did it.” I echoed the words, voicing my own disbelief and exhilaration, the sound harsh and raw in the space between us.
We fell backward, landing hard against the cushions, laughter threading through our kisses. The beer on the coffee table teetered but didn’t fall, forgotten, as the taste of victory and closeness enveloped us. I wrapped my legs around him, fingers tracing down his back, feeling the heat of him against me, the pulse of celebration pounding through his chest and into mine.
Landon’s phone buzzed in his jeans pocket. He shifted, reluctantly prying himself from me to reach for it. The glow of the screen lit his face, and his mouth dropped open. “Oh, my God.”
I bolted upright, pressing close. “What? What happened?”
He couldn’t speak. His hand froze in the air, phone extended toward me. I snatched it, scanning the screen, heart lurching. The text from Holly made my stomach flip and a sob spilled past my lips: Big win. All charges have been dropped.
29
Landon
The roar hit before I even set skates to ice, a living wall of sound vibrating through the boards and into my chest. Game Seven. Surge versus Hurricanes. But more than that—I was in the team.
Chants of my name raised the roof. Posters of my face, banners, jerseys with my number…
Every conversation, every headline, every radio blare since Monday had led to this moment. My throat tightened with anticipation, and I shoved it down because there wasn’t a second for doubt. Or ego.
This wasn’t about me.
“Focus up, rookie,” Mason said, shoving a palm into my shoulder as we lined up. His grin didn’t hide the tension. “We’ve got twenty minutes to make history in this period alone.”
“Twenty minutes, one battle,” I muttered, adjusting my gloves.
The puck dropped, and the arena erupted. Hurricanes came at us with a fury I hadn’t fully expected. Quick passes, tight formations, bodies colliding with a rhythm meant to intimidate. They scored first with a puck off a backhand from their captainthat zipped past Hunter and the post to bounce in. Surge down 0-1 before we could even breathe.
“Shake it off!” Grayson yelled as we regrouped near our net. “They’re strong, but we’ve beaten them three times already. Remember that.”
