The wrong name.
My brain supplies the thought before I can stop it: I want it to be mine. It’s a stupid thought. Possessive. Dangerous, even. Off-limits written in giant neon letters. I turn away before it turns into something worse.
Focus.
The puck drops, and the game starts fast.
The other team comes out flying, trying to set the tone early. Two hard hits along the boards. A quick shot from the point that Asher eats like breakfast. The crowd roars anyway, hungry for something to cheer for.
We answer with speed.
Kai’s line gets the first real zone time. Weston wins a battle in the corner—miracle—and kicks the puck back to Kai, who doesn’t waste a second. He snaps a pass to me, cutting through the slot.
I don’t think.
I shoot.
Their goalie gets a piece of it, glove flashing, and the puck pops loose into the crease. Chaos erupts in front of the net—sticks, skates, bodies.
Weston crashes the crease like he was born to be annoying and tips it in.
The horn blares. The crowd detonates.
Weston throws his hands up like he personally invented goals. “LET’S GO!”
We swarm him anyway because that’s what you do. Helmets knocking, gloves slapping, adrenaline spiking.
As I skate back to the bench, my eyes flick upward without permission. Harlow isn’t screaming. She’s standing, hands pressed to her mouth like she’s trying to hold herself together, eyes bright and locked on the ice like she can’t believe it’s real.
And there’s that smile again—small, rare, unguarded.
It hits low and warm.
My chest loosens.
Then tightens again, because her jersey still says Mercer.
The game stays chippy.
The other team doesn’t love being down early, and they start doing what teams do when they’re frustrated—late shoves after whistles, extra hacks at sticks, little cheap shots disguised as “finishing plays.”
Coleson eats it up. He chirps their bench every time we skate by. Loud enough that the ref glances over. He takes a run at their defensemen near the boards and then grins like he’s proud of himself.
Kai’s jaw ticks.
Second shift, Coleson lines up at the faceoff and leans in toward their center, saying something I can’t hear over the crowd. Their center’s head snaps up. His stick comes up. The puck drops, and suddenly gloves are off.
Coleson’s laughing.
Kai is not.
He grabs Coleson by the back of the jersey and hauls him out of it with one hard yank, like he’s pulling a dog away from traffic.
“Enough,” Kai snaps, low, lethal.
Coleson shrugs him off like he’s invincible. “They’re soft.”
Kai’s eyes cut to him. “You’re embarrassing.”
