And, damn it, why am I smiling at that directive?
Okay, yes. Beckett and I will need to spend time together to practice. But that’s all it will be. Hockey practice or preparing for The Great Yeti Challenge.
A second email from Sabrina hits my inbox, this one with a short list of additional filming she wants Beckett and me to do, including a request for me to wear the pink Yeti shirt again. Turns out, it’s sold out at the team store in the twenty-two hours since the last competition.
I reply, agreeing to the filming times.
And that little flutter in my chest? It’s not because I’m irritated at the additional time away from my job, like it should be. No, it’s because I just got told to spend more time with Beckett Kane. And that’s a real problem.
Chapter 14
Beckett
Thepuckrattlesfree,and my body is already moving before I realize that my legs feel heavier than they normally do at this point in a game. I angle my hips, cut off the lane, and shoulder their winger just enough to separate him from the puck without drawing a whistle.
Clean. Controlled.
The crowd surges as I pivot toward the blue line, tracking the play. Chicago’s pushing harder now, desperation bleeding into every move. They’re getting sloppy. And dangerous.
The puck snaps cross-ice, and I close the gap fast. The winger tries to dangle inside. Bad choice. I step into him, timing it perfectly. Chest to shoulder, weight through the hit. He goes down, and the puck slides loose.
I barely register the roar of the crowd. I glance toward the bench on the backcheck—just a quick scan out of habit—and that’s when I see her. Coach Blake stands behind the boards,arms crossed, expression unreadable. Her eyes are locked on the ice.
On me.
Something in my chest tightens. Not nerves, but something sharper. Cleaner.
I dig deeper into my edges.
The next shift, I play more aggressively.
When one of their forwards takes a run at our goalie, I’m there in half a second, dropping gloves and getting in just enough to make my point.
When I skate to the box for my two minutes, I don’t look at the bench. I don’t need to. I can feel her attention like a lightning rod between my shoulder blades.
Ten years ago, I played like this because I was trying to prove something about who I could be.
Tonight, I’m playing like this because I know exactly who I am.
And I want Finley to see it.
***
“You were on fire out there.” Li slaps my shoulder as we make our way into the locker room after a hard-fought win on our home ice. “The hit you threw after that asshole ran the goalie? I don’t care how long you sat; it was absolute perfection.”
Down by two at the start of the third period, Chicago sent their enforcers out more than usual, and I met them hit for fucking hit. You can always tell when a team’s getting desperate—their big guys start leading the rush like they’re goons in a street fight.
For the first time in a long time, I feltgood. Like I did five years ago, when I was on top of the hockey world.
“Yeah, man, what’s gotten into you?” Larsen asks. “I thought you were going to break a hip or something out there the way you weren’t even trying to avoid those assholes.”
I shove him hard into the wall, but he bounces right back. “I’m not that fucking old.”
“I know what this is about,” Larsen chirps as we make our way into the locker room.
It’s about me being a damn good hockey player. I refuse to admit it could have anything to do with the woman standing behind the bench. And since I’m not admitting it, there’s no way Larsen knows about it.
“Now that you’re a big celebrity, you wanted to make sure you didn’t let your fans down.”
