He nudges it past the last defender.
He has a clear lane to the empty net from the red line.
He could shoot.
He could take the easy goal.
Instead, he turns his head, finds me, and waits a fraction—like he’s making sure I see it.
Then he snaps the puck into the empty net.
3-0.
The horn blares.
Boston boos so loud it shakes the glass.
I stand in my crease, breathing hard behind my cage, and it hits me—this strange, clean satisfaction.
We did that.
Together—as a team.
Callaway skates past my crease on his way to the bench, and even after sixty minutes of noise, I hear him like he’s the only sound meant for me.
He leans in, voice quiet and wicked.“Shutout, Monty.”
I don’t move.I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“Good job, babe,” he adds, softer, like he can’t help himself.Like praise is a reflex he can’t shut off.
My body betrays me.
I feel it everywhere—under the pads, under the control, under the persona I wear like armor.A rush in my ribs, heat in my palms, a stupid urge to grab him by the jersey and pull him close just to prove I can.
I hate that I want it.
I hate that part of me wants to smile like I’m not made of barbed wire.
I do neither.
I just stare out at the ice and keep my face blank behind the cage because blank is safe and safe is all I’ve ever trusted.
The Boston’s captain, Jeremy Hollingsworth approaches me, I’m surprised that he says, “Good game.”It sounds respectful.“Enjoy Portland.”
I meet his gaze.I let my mouth do nothing.“I will.”
Callaway waits by the bench gate, watching like he’s gauging whether this is danger or just a clean goodbye.I skate toward him.When I reach him, he doesn’t offer his hand—he steps in close and bumps his shoulder lightly into mine, casual enough for the cameras, intimate enough to make my pulse jump.
It’s a celebration disguised as nothing.
“Look at us,” he murmurs.“Actually behaving and working as a team.”
“Don’t get used to it,” I say, voice flat.
He smiles like he plans to.
We skate off the ice together and the tunnel swallows the noise behind us.The roar turns distant, muffled, like the building is finally exhaling.
