My nails dig into my palms. Griff can handle himself, but seeing Buckley take aim at him again has my bloodstream on fire. Buckley’s gotten into more fights than his team have attempted to score goals.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Oliver and Chase go at it with two of The Hammers. It’s not polite—it never is—then Oliver’s stick drops and he turns, shoving number forty-three.
And that’s it.
Everything goes haywire.
Oliver goes feral first, blocking every swing, every cheap hit. He gets Crawford in a headlock and lands two clean punches before the refs break them apart.
The crowd roars and my head swivels from Oliver to find Chase tangling with number seventy-four. I can’t take my eyes off him. He fights like someone’s unleashed him. He’s lethal but beautiful in a way that makes my pulse trip over itself.
When they drag him away, he glances up at me, sweat dripping down his face as adrenaline clearly pumps through him. He flashes me a grin and a wink.
My bones liquefy.
Hottest. Thing. Ever.
On the jumbotron, Buckley spits blood onto the ice. Griff smirks at him, ready to go for another three rounds. Buckley lunges, but his captain yanks him back, yelling out words that look like cut the shit. Buckley doesn’t agree and flips his captain off.
I check the clock—three minutes—and the game is tied.
A grin splits my cheeks as Oliver flies down the ice. He’s a blur, closing in on the net. The goalie twitches trying to anticipate Oliver’s next move. Someone from The Hammers gains on him fast, but Oliver doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate.
The crowd stays on their feet, breaths stalling all at once. Everyone thinks he’s taking the shot.
He doesn’t.
He slips the puck beautifully between his legs the exact moment he’s slammed by a defender. The puck slides across the ice, landing on Chase’s stick like this moment always belonged to him.
He fires.
The shot is clean but powerful—deadly.
The goal siren sounds, echoing throughout the stadium. I can’t even hear myself scream, but the rush surges through my veins and the whole crowd loses it.
They did it.
They’re going to the playoffs.
And my man just scored the goal that made it happen. For a second, everything—every nightmare, shadow, unanswered question—falls away. And all that’s left is pride—for him.
We’re goingto the Stanley Cup playoffs.
I can’t believe it.
We finally head out, and all I want to do is get my hands on my girl. The second I spot her, she smiles big and wide, her dimple popping. I rush her. She squeals as I pull her into me and lift her off the floor.
Her laugh is music to my ears. Hearing it is like cracking a window that’s been closed for too long.
My lips are on hers immediately.
She pulls away after a minute. “You did it. I’m so proud of you, Eighty-Seven,” she says, her eyes shining with pride all for me.
“I can’t believe it,” I say with a laugh.
“Ready to celebrate?” she asks as I set her down just in time for Rudy to jump onto my back and let out a whoop.
“Ready to get your dance on, baby sister?” Rudy asks, jumping down before he lowers into a squat and starts twerking.
