Pack’s line jumped over the boards for the Warriors. As he skated by, he looked at me and mouthed, “Bullshit.”
My heart skipped a beat, and I was lost again. I held on to my seat to be sure I didn’t chase him down for a kiss.
At the end of the second, we were still down 1–0. Coach Murphy came into the locker room looking calm, but he let us have it.
“You’re the finest team I’ve ever coached,” he said. “You’ve got it all. Speed, smarts, and the ability to create opportunities and turn things around. That’s what you need to do here.”
He paused and cleared his throat. I’d played for him long enough to tell he was trying hard not to lose his temper.
“To win in hockey,” he continued, “you need guts and follow-through. I’m seeing a lot of the first but not much of the second. Are you all so distracted by this Packo nonsense that you’ve forgotten how to win?” He looked at me and smirked. “I could almost understand it from Nico.”
Everyone laughed, and I muttered “bullshit” into my hand. Coach shook his head. “If you get out of your heads and play like the team I know you are, we’ll win this one and head to Detroit on top of our division. If you don’t, it’ll be a different story.”
When the puck dropped to start the third period, everything sharpened. We were faster on the ice, and I could feel our hunger. The shift of momentum was undeniable.
Nine minutes in, things finally broke open. My line was on the ice, and Kai had just blocked a low shot that nearly went through his five-hole. Jace caught the rebound, and we rushed into Buffalo’s zone. Jace dished to Parker, who circled behind the net and took a shot as he came around. Donovan blocked it with his glove, and this time, the rebound came to me.
I snapped it without thinking and watched the puck sail past Donovan’s glove into the net. When the crowd erupted in anger, I almost flipped them off.
Tie game. 1–1.
We peeled off for a line change, and I ignored the look Pack gave me as I skated by. It was part pride and part dare, mixed with something else that went straight to my dick.
Bad boy! No thinking about dicks during the game.
The next stretch was chaos, all hard hits and relentless shots. Both goalies stood on their heads while the fans yelled like lunatics. We fed off the energy, and after a puck battle along the boards, Theo took a shot from the blue line that flew into the net so hard I was afraid it might tear through the twine.
2–1, Condors.
The crowd fell quiet except for a pocket of Condors fans losing their minds near our bench. We held on to the lead, and I thought we might actually win the game.
That held until the last minute, when Buffalo trapped us in our zone and threw everything they had at us. Pack’s line came over the boards and turned the ice into a war zone. Riley and Parker battled for the puck behind the goal, and when Riley shook free, our guys boxed him in as the clock hit ten seconds.
It was like watching in slow motion as Riley passed to Holcomb, who spun and sent it to Pack. Pack shot off the pass, and Kai barely had time to yell “fuck” before the goal horn blared and the crowd exploded.
2–2. Goddamn overtime.
I bent over, gasping for air. Pack glided up beside me and said, “You look hot with your ass sticking out like that.”
A rush of heat tore through me as he skated away. We had two minutes to regroup before five minutes of three-on-three play with open ice and nowhere to hide. I sat on the bench, gulping air and trying to get my legs to stop shaking.
Coach tapped my shoulder. “Rossi, Parker, Castillo. Get out there.”
I jumped over the boards, trying not to think about the Warriors’ overtime squad. It was always the same: Pack, Blanton, and Grayson.
Blanton won the draw and kicked it back to Grayson, who sped away. Jace cut him off, but Grayson passed to Pack. The three Warriors set up like champions, controlling the ice and leaving us to chase them around. We tried to stay tight, but the puck moved faster than we could close the lanes. A minute in, Logan carried it down the wall, drawing me toward him, then feathered a pass straight across the slot.
Pack caught it, and all it took was one smooth pull and a flick of his wrist. Kai moved, but the puck bounced off his skate and into the net. The goal horn barely cut through the crowd’s roar.
3–2. Game over.
While the fans went nuts, Pack’s teammates swarmed him. Hats rained down from the stands, and I realized Pack had scored a hat trick. Instead of being furious about how they’d robbed us of the win, I wanted to be part of their celly so much my chest ached. When they broke up, Pack found me with his eyes, and his grin hit me in the gut.
I coasted toward him until I was a few yards away and then saluted. The crowd roared again. “Packo! Packo! Packo!”
Another voice, much closer, yelled, “Nico!”
As Kai guided me toward the tunnel, I glanced back for one more look at Pack, who was holding his stick up for the fans.
