“Maybe?”
At least, I think that’s what he says. There’s shouting in the background. Doors opening and closing. Someone hollers at him to get his butt in gear.
“Gotta go.”
“Go win,” I say.
“Already did,” he says.
The call ends as I tell myself he’s just showing team spirit and the comment about already winning has nothing to do with us. Duh.
My email pings—I shut off all other social media notifications because they’ve been hitting like a hailstorm. But when I open the app, I’ve received a notice from the loan officer at the bank who is reviewing my application for the Barkery. She needs proof of stable income for the next month. Proof that I can sustain the business during startup. The Love at First Wag payment would cover that. But only if the campaign is successful. Only if Clark and I can convince everyone we’re really in love.
No pressure or anything.
15
CLARK
We are upby one with two minutes left in the third period.
They’re my former team, still populated by some of the guys who gave me my first real shot in the NHL. And right now, I want nothing more than to crush them.
“Culpepper!” Coach barks from the bench. “Eyes up!”
I send out a silent prayer and then tap my stick against the post—once, twice, repeat—the ritual I know is foolish, but do anyway. It’s less about superstition and more of a cue to my mind and muscles to get ready to stop goals at all costs.
The puck drops and Liam wins the faceoff, sending the biscuit back to Pierre. The play develops fast as Boston’s center breaks through, skating hard toward me with the puck practically glued to his stick.
I read his eyes. See the deke. Drop into my butterfly just as he shoots glove side.
The puck makes contact with a satisfyingthwackthat vibrates through me.
I hold it up and the arena explodes as the whistleblows.
We still have forty-three seconds left.
“Let’s go, boys!” Liam shouts, his team captain voice rising above everything. “This is our house!”
My heart rate kicks up, but my hands are steady.
This is what I live for. The pressure. The pace. The impossible saves.
We recalibrate and the puck is back in play. Boston wants this badly, but they’re in scramble-mode even as they gain possession, passing the puck along the line. Their forward winds up for a slap shot.
I track it, adjust my position, and anticipate contact as the puck sails toward the top shelf. I reach, stretch, and stop it from entering our net as the game concludes with the sound of the buzzer. And that, my friends, is how a win is made.
Our team song blares through the arena along with chanting, cheering, and pounding feet.
The team rushes me, and suddenly I’m at the bottom of a pile of sweaty hockey players, all screaming and laughing. Someone’s helmet digs into my ribs. I don’t care.
In the locker room, it erupts like we just took the Cup.
“Playoffs, baby!” Mikey hollers, spraying everyone with his water bottle like it’s champagne.
“We’re not there yet,” Liam warns, ever the captain, but even he’s grinning.
“Culpepper!” Hayden slaps my shoulder so hard I nearly drop my glove. “That last save wasinsane. Did you see his face when you caught it?”
