Every time his name was mentioned by the announcers, a little cheer went up from our crowd. Every time the camera caught him on the bench, I held my breath, wondering if tonight would be the last time he could be a hockey player without other labels attached.
“He looks good,” a woman at the bar said during a commercial break, nodding toward the TV where they were showing highlights from the first period. “Shaw’s focused.”
“Always does,” her companion replied. “Guy’s been playing out of his mind this season. Whatever’s got him motivated, I hope it keeps up.”
If only they knew, I thought, pulling another round of beers.
The Lightning tied it up with four minutes left in the third. Skyler got an assist on the goal, and Barbacks erupted like we’d just won the final Stanley Cup ever to be played. I found myself grinning despite my nerves. This was his element, his world, and watching him excel at it while knowing what was coming next was simultaneously terrifying and moving.
“Overtime!” Benji shrieked from somewhere behind the bar. “This is perfect! More time for people to show up for the press conference!”
A roar of assent rose from the crowd, and murmurs of “What’s this big announcement?” made their way through the throng.
“That’s not how any of this works,” I called back, but I was smiling.
Overtime was five minutes of pure chaos.
The crowd in the arena—and in Barbacks—was on their feet, screaming at every near-miss and celebrating every save like it was game seven. When the Lightning scored with thirty-seven seconds left, the entire bar exploded in noise that made my eardrums ache.
“Let’s go, Bolts! You go, boy!” someone shouted from the back of the room, and for a wild momentI thought they meant Skyler specifically before realizing they were celebrating the team in general.
Our boy, I thought.
If only they knew how true those words were about to become.
The post-game wrap-up felt like it lasted forever—highlights, interviews with other players, and a routine analysis of the overtime winner. The crowd was still buzzing with post-victory energy, but I could feel a different sort of anticipation building as more and more people seemed to realize Skyler’s press conference was about to start.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer said, “we’re now going live to Captain Skyler Shaw’s post-game press briefing.”
The noise in Barbacks dropped to almost nothing.
Every eye in the place turned to the TVs.
And suddenly, there he was, sitting at the media room podium in his suit and tie, his hair wet and slicked back, looking calm and professional and terrified all at once.
“Here we go,” Finn said quietly from beside me.
I reached under the bar and gripped the edge of the counter hard enough to leave fingerprints in the wood. Finn’s hand covered mine, and I don’t think I’d ever been so grateful for the touch of another man who wasn’t named Skyler.
Miracle number two was about to begin.
Chapter 40
Skyler
The walk from the locker room to the media room felt like walking toward a firing squad.
Each step echoed in the hallway, bouncing off concrete walls that seemed to close in with every footfall. My palms were sweating, and I could feel my heart hammering against my ribs, but it wasn’t nerves about speaking to the press—I’d done this hundreds of times before. It wasn’t even about sharing my love life with the world. I couldn’t care less about what they thought of who I dated.
It was what they might ask or how they might report in the papers or on the TV that had me terrified.
What if they attack me?
What if they ask if I’m attracted to my teammates?
What if they make it ugly and invasive and turn this into some kind of circus?
The door to the media room was propped open, and I could hear the low murmur of conversationfrom inside. There were maybe twenty reporters, camera operators, and team PR staff. Kevin caught my eye as I approached and gave me a thumbs-up that was meant to be encouraging but only made my stomach clench tighter than my asshole, which, in that moment, was next to impossible.
