“We have an hour before we need to head to the rink, and Seaborn isn’t here.” I lay sprawled out on the hotel bed.
He shakes his head. “Can’t be doing that.”
“Why not?” I frown, trying to remember if pre-game sex is one of the goalie no no’s.
“No sex during the playoffs! It’s no nut, no net.”
“Excuse me? There’s not a saying for that.” I don’t know if I should be annoyed or resigned.
“It’s a real thing. All goalies know. Ask Savage.”
“Wait, so we can’t have sex at all?”
He shakes his head. “Not during the tournament.”
“We had sex during the Myth League championship!” I argue because this is bullshit.
“It’s different. That’s conference, and this is the Frozen Four. But also, do I need to point out we lost?” He comes to the edge of the bed.
“We seriously can’t have sex until we win?” I sit up and wrap my arms around him, wanting to push it but also not wanting to fuck up his head space. “Being a hockey WAG sucks.”
He laughs and then tugs off his hoodie. “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for what we want, sweetheart.” Before I realize what he’s doing he’s shoving the hoodie over my head. “And I’m going to need you to put this on because my bisexuality is at an eleven today, and you look too hot.”
“What?” I put my arms through the sleeves, not mad about being in his hoodie. It smells like him.
“My bisexuality is at an?—”
“I heard you. What does that mean?”
“It means I’m turned up,” he says like I should understand.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is, and I need to save all the intensity for the game.”
“This is a glimpse into the rest of my life, isn’t it?”
“Only if you’re lucky,” he says like a threat.
We’reup two-zero with only five minutes left, like Wolfe predicted. It’s been a pretty easy game. The games are single elimination, so all we have to do is make it through the next five minutes, and we’re on to the next round.
The Guardians have great defense, but their goalie is a freshman and not at the level he needs to be. I feel bad for him,but Hawke prepped us this week to take as many shots on goal as we can get off, and the team is killing it.
On top of that, Wolfe is on fire. He’s not letting anything through. We all look much better than we did at the conference championships, which is good for the draft.
With two minutes left, Seaborn is thrown in the box.
Fuck.
It’s fine. I’m not getting in my head about it. We got this.
The clock ticks down, and I’m using every last bit of my reserve to cover while they work the puck around. Wolfe is smiling.
Don’t celebrate early.
They fake like they are going to move it to the middle, and Wolfe comes out to check the player, but they don’t pass inside, going outside instead. Solace goes after the puck but trips as he’s about to shoot and lands on the puck.
“No.” The word dies in my throat as the ref calls it.
