Weston elbows me as I punch in the code. “Look at you — the new media darling.”
“What can I say? The cameras love me.” I toss my gear into the locker and unbutton my shirt.
“Happy you’re back. We’re gonna go out there and kick some ass tonight.”
“Absolutely.” I hang my shirt and jacket on a hook, shove my dress pants into the locker.
“The boys are back together again.” Callum slaps me on the back, grinning.
“About fucking time.” I throw my jersey over my head, adrenaline pumping through me. “Probation was boring as shit.”
Not totally true.
I flash back to movie night with Tori, the elevator.
A sharp clap jolts me back to reality. “Team huddle. Now.”
Coach Keller’s voice cuts through the noise and someone turns the music down. We all close our lockers, get quiet.
“I expect us to go out there and win. Denver’s tough, but we’re tougher. We have the entire lineup here—” He cuts his eyes at me. “So I know we’ll do great things. No hero shit. We play—and win—as a team.”
Heard.
“Run the plays we practiced. If we play the game we practice, we win.”
“Yes, Coach.” The locker room murmurs in unison, Callum’s eyes shifting to mine.
Like he knows I might not follow directives.
Control.
“Alright, let’s get out there and win.” Coach breaks the huddle and we file out of the locker room in a cloud of testosterone and nerves.
I’m almost to the ice when I spot her.
She’s at the end of the tunnel, tapping away on her phone.
Every muscle in my body tenses as I walk by, pretending not to notice her.
She glances up. I shouldn’t look.
So of course I do.
Her gaze snags on mine for half a second, the tip of her tongue flicking over her bottom lip. She swallows hard, eyes dropping back down to her phone like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.
Fuck me.
I roll my shoulders and hop the gate. My stick’s light in my hands, blades gliding over the ice. Warm-ups are a blur of laps, shots, and noise. Muscle memory kicks in as I skate, cold air filling my lungs. I’m loose as I slap the puck into the net, the crowd loud behind me. I scan the owner’s suite once. Find her. Eyes back on the ice.
Then the lights dip, the anthem plays, and everything gets sharp.
It’s go time.
The puck drops and I’m laser focused. It comes my way, the vibration traveling up the stick as I make contact and send it to Morrison, slicing across the ice. The lightsand the crowd fade into the background and it’s just my stick, the puck, and my teammates.
We go back and forth, cycling it to Weston. I’m moving toward the net, locked in, total tunnel vision.
Weston snaps a shot and the lights flash blue and white.
