Goal.
My chest explodes, all the built-up tension from the last few weeks escaping.
We score within the first two minutes and I grin all the way to the bench.
I’m back, baby.
Second period and Denver’s getting desperate. One of their forwards shoves me after the whistle, chirping in my ear. Anger surges through me and my knuckles flex—old habits. I want to throw an elbow, maybe a punch.
No hero shit.
Tamping down my instinct, I push him off and skate away. Swallow down the insult and focus on winning the game.
Next shift, the puck rifles toward me. I stickhandle, gliding down the ice with Morrison covering high. A defender steps up, but I take the shot.
The puck slides into the net, beating the goalie.
The crowd’s roar vibrates in my bones.
Score.
Weston and Morrison chest bump me and I pump my fist in the air, victorious.
Third period. Denver’s frustrated and it shows. A guy takes a run at Weston along the boards and everything goes sideways — sticks jabbing, gloves grabbing jerseys. I’ve rarely seen my brother so keyed up, nostrils flaring and face red.
I’m there in two strides, chest heaving, ready to defend. Hands itching to do what they usually do — make contact.
My eyes flick to the tunnel. And there she is. Calm, controlled.
Not panicked, not pleading.
Watching.
Under control.
I grab Weston’s shoulder and pull him back. Then skate away before the refs decide I’m part of the problem.
After that, we lock it down. Denver presses, throwing everything at the net. Shot after shot gets sent, absolute chaos in front of Callum. I take a puck off the shin pad and hot pain flares. I ignore it, cycling the puck back to Weston, and we survive the last frantic minutes. Holding them off, the clock ticks down one second at a time. When the final horn sounds, the entire bench explodes.
Win in regulation.
I’m back where I belong. Breath coming hard, adrenaline coursing through me. Buzzing like a damn live wire.
I step off the ice and head toward the tunnel, the roar of the crowd echoing in my ears. All I can think about is finding her before the win burns off.
And there she is. Standing in the hallway, calm, controlled.
But with a smile on her beautiful face that hits harder than the win.
“Nice game, Steele.” Quiet, matter-of-fact.
I step closer to her, fingers itching to touch her.
“Thanks. Told you — under control.”
Pink stains her cheeks, one hand flying up to her necklace.
Several teammates push by, their voices loud. Interrupting the moment.
