“I know.” He opens his eyes like it takes effort. “But I’m new to the best friend thing, so cut me a break.”
I huff a laugh that turns into a sigh. “You wanna talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?”
“I don’t know… your prince?”
He rolls onto his back. “He was no one. Just some guy I met at a bar who was game for my plan.”
“Why’d you do it?”
He drums his fingers on his stomach, brows furrowing. Then he looks back at me. “Guess you inspired me.”
“What?” I push myself up on one elbow.
“The way you go after what you want without apology. How deeply you care for others, sure, but for yourself, too. How you refused to give all of yourself to this damned industry. You made me realize it wasn’t too late to get some of me back, too.”
I sit up. “What are you going to do now?”
He stands and grabs the room service binder before returning to sit at the end of the bed. He stares at the blank TV screen.
“I guess be me?” he says, like he’s not quite sure who that is yet. Then he looks over at me. “The real question is, what areyougoing to do now?”
The question barely lands before I know.
I want to go home.
Not Nashville. Not wherever the tour bus parks next.
Him. I want to go back to him.
“Go watch Miles win the Cup.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Stanley Cup Final.Game 7. Second overtime. Fourteen minutes in.
My legs stopped being legs somewhere around the third period. Every shift is shorter than the last. Every change comes faster. The ice is unforgiving, chewed up under my skates.
But we’re here. Still tied.
Still alive.
Kettler wins a battle along the boards and sends me up the left side with a quick pass. I drive hard, getting a clean entry into the zone, then send the puck to Logan with a no-look pass. He fires it as soon as it hits his tape, but it goes wide, and their defense takes away the rebound.
I skate back, lungs burning, and hop over the boards. I’m on the bench watching Fox set up in the offensive zone, working the puck along the half wall, looking for a lane. The crowd is loud, but it’s a held-breath kind of loud.
Kettler leans into me. “We’ve got them. They’re gassed.”
I nod. We’re all dead on our feet, but I know what he means. We’ve been the better team for the last ten minutes. It’s coming. I can feel it. We’re playing patient, smart, sticking to our systems. They’re getting antsy.
Logan gets a shot away from the point. Blocked.
Helm retrieves it, spins, and throws it back to the point.
Another shot. Tipped wide.
We’re buzzing. We’re right there.
