I nodded. “I like now better.”
Halfway through the second OT, Dallas took a penalty. Too many men. Sloppy. Costly.
Our power play unit jumped over the boards, and I lined up on the right again. Same spot. Same expectation.
The puck dropped. Tucker won it back. We set up.
Dallas pressured hard, but cracks showed. Their legs were heavy. Reactions late.
Tucker slid it to Grayson. Grayson to Mason. Mason back to me.
Time stretched. The lane opened.
I didn’t think. I trusted my hands.
I walked the puck in, pulled it just far enough to change the angle, and dummied a shot that made their guys tangle up on themselves. Scooped it left, and through my own legs as I hit a spike-twist to make their goalie go sprawling in the wrong direction.
The sound of the puck hitting the net cut through everything.
3-2 Surge.
The bench emptied as I threw my gloves in the air, and bodies slammed into me. The noise from the crowd blurred into something vast and distant. Cameras everywhere. Teammates shouting my name.
9
Nicole
I sat on the end of the players’ bench with my feet tucked back so no one clipped my ankles, palms pressed to the cold edge beneath the padding, trying to absorb everything at once without looking like I might combust. Steam lifted off shoulders and helmets. Blades carved lazy arcs as the guys peeled away from another drill, some of them circling back for pucks they didn’t need, others drifting toward the bench for water and towels.
This was not where fans sat. This was not where anyone like me ever sat.
“Water, then we go again,” Coach McAvoy barked from the red line, arms crossed. His eyes slid my way and held for the umpteenth time since training started.
He hadn’t asked me to leave, but it was clear he would’ve preferred to not have me there.
I straightened without thinking, spine snapping tall, like posture alone could justify my presence. He looked away without saying a word, which somehow felt worse and better at the same time.
Landon coasted in last, helmet under his arm, gloves dangling from one hand as he reached the boards. He hopped the short distance to the bench and dropped down beside me, hair damp at his temples. His knee bumped mine and stayed there.
“Your girlfriend stealing my seat now?” Shawn called from the ice, stick tapping the boards twice as punctuation.
Landon twisted the cap on his water bottle and took a swig. “You’re late to practice every day. It was never your seat.”
“I’m filing a complaint,” Shawn replied. “This is a closed skate.”
“Then close your eyes,” Mason shot back as he glided past, blade scraping to a stop in front of us. He pointed his stick at me. “She’s the president of Surge Nation. Hardly a spy, so what’s the problem?”
“The problem,” Grayson said from further out, voice carrying clean across the rink, “is some of us had to earn our distractions.”
Landon finally looked at me then, a sideways glance with that infuriating ease he carried like a birthright. “Ignore them.”
I nodded, even though ignoring a group of my favorite hockey stars chirping about me from ten feet away was a tall order. My pulse thudded in my ears.
This was their bench I was sitting on. Their actual bench, in their actual home arena. There were scuff marks on the floor from years of skates, tape residue stuck to the edge.
“You sure you’re not gonna get in trouble for this?”
He hid his amusement behind another sip of water. “There’s an upside to being the favorite.”
