“Onlyyou,” he repeated, draping his arm across my chest.
It was our usual position, but the fit was different now.
His lips brushed my hair. “Let’s rest a while before we get dinner.”
I closed my eyes, and the steady rhythm of his breath lulled me. There was only him. He was all I needed.
44/
nico
Game 7: Laurentian Cup Finals
Buffalo Warriors v. San Jose Pulse
The puck wouldn’t goin. I gripped my beer so hard that foam sloshed over the rim. On the ice, Harpy finally dug the puck away from the boards and snapped it toward the goal. Dog crashed the net, hacking at the rebound as the Pulse’s goalie sprawled.
The crowd surged to its feet as the puck slipped free, then hit the boards. When San Jose cleared the zone, a groan rolled through the arena, heavy enough to rattle the glass in the Warriors’ suite.
I was on my feet, beer forgotten, with one hand gripping the rail. My pulse pounded in my ears. “Come on,” I yelled. “Come on!”
The Warriors’ first line stayed on the ice, and Harpy won the faceoff. Richie grabbed the puck. As Dog pivoted to cover, his stick caught a Pulse forward’s skate.
A whistle shrieked, followed by the ref tugging his arms across the front of his body. My stomach dropped. Hooking. Two-minute minor for Dog, power play for the Pulse.
Dog slammed his stick against the ice, then pushed off toward the box. Pulse fans roared, and somewhere below, fists pounded the glass.
“Fuck!”
Criswell, the Warriors’ coach, sent Pack’s line out for the penalty kill. Holky and Pack were the forwards, with Abdulov and Brody backing them up on D.
There’s Pack. My guy.
The Warriors fell into formation for the faceoff, sticks low and bodies braced. San Jose’s superstar center won the draw, his right wing got the puck, and they streaked into our zone.
Pass. Pass. Shot blocked. Another pass. Shot hit the pipes. The crowd’s roar was a living thing.
The rebound bounced to a Pulse D-man, and Pack chased him away from the goal. No hesitation, no calculation, just Pack. God, I loved him.
The D-man fired at the goal anyway. It deflected off Holky’s skate and?—
The ref blew his whistle, and his arm shot straight up. For a moment, there was silence.
Pulse 4. Warriors 3.
The crowd exploded, half joy and half fury, as I stood there unable to move. The end of the second period was a minute away, and I’d never wanted to be on the ice more in my life.
The third passed in a blur. The horn ended the period before the crowd’s roar faded away. Harpy had scored in the last three seconds of play. Tie game, 4–4.
Overtime. The word lodged in my chest like an armed bomb. I got another beer to keep me sane and wondered what was happening in the Warriors’ locker room. Around me, people told nervous jokes and made loud predictions. I went back to my seat and stared at the empty ice as if Pack might skate back out early just to prove he was okay.
Overtime was a giant heart attack. Sudden death was one goal away, and everyone in the arena knew it. We were all on our feet. If I sat, I might jinx Pack somehow.
Three minutes in, he hopped over the boards for his first shift. My heart couldn’t have pounded harder if I’d been on the ice with him. Most of the men on the ice were lagging. Jerseys hung heavier on their shoulders, and even from where I was, it was easy to see the sweat dripping off their faces.
But Pack’s posture was the same as always. He was locked in: chin tucked, shoulders loose, and eyes sharp. The puck dropped, and play moved too quickly for my fevered brain. A frantic scramble along the boards had my heart hammering. When a San Jose winger fired a slapshot at the goal, everyone in the arena shrieked. Gabe made an impossible save, and the shrieks faded into a collective gasp.
Unable to remain still, I paced the length of the suite, then stopped and went the other way. Back and forth until I wondered if I’d wear a groove into the carpet. I kept my eyes on the wide-screen TVs hanging on every wall, and each time Pack’s line was on the ice, my chest ached from tension.
