With a beauty of a shot, Owen tucked it in the top of the net.
Fuck. It was just up to me to stop Guy Stelle. If there was anyone I was afraid of in L.A.’s lineup, it was him.
Clear your head. What needs to happen next?
I shuffled back and forth, because it looked like he was going to shoot from farther back. But at the last second, he came in tight and popped it up.
By some fucking miracle, I stuck my glove up and blocked it just before it passed the bar.
To that point, I’d never heard our arena that loud.
I collapsed onto my knees with a yell that came from somewhere deep inside me. It was only my second career shutout, and damn was it hard-earned. Owen skated up at top speed and slid on his knees until he ran into me and hugged me. Yelling. Both of us just yelling. The rest of the team was there in seconds, joining the dogpile.
I’d fucking done it. Confetti rained from the rafters, and I kept hearing one word from my teammates: clinched.
Cap got on his knees in front of me. “Pittsburgh lost and we won. We clinched!”
I’m not sure what I said after that was English. I was so dedicated to not getting distracted by what-if scenarios that I completely missed the significance.
Not only were we going to the playoffs, but I got a fucking shut-out.
Things calmed enough for everybody’s partners to bring out their kids for our stick salute. Leroy was surrounded by what felt like a hundred kids to me, the tiniest of which he held tight to his shoulders. The flood of kids were handed off and Liam and his friends were turning to head back with Emma.
I called after him. “Liam!”
He turned around, and I beckoned him my way. “Come out!”
Emma looked alarmed.
I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Your choice.”
Liam glanced at his mom and she shrugged and sent him on. I skated behind him to the middle of the ice.
“I’m not a baby,” he said.
“No, but you’re Chef’s baby and she’s part of the team.”
He laughed and I put my arm around his shoulder to pull him into our circle, with Owen on my other side.
“Hey! Whose kid are you?” Owen yelled over the crowd.
“Chef’s son,” Liam clarified. “Liam.”
“Oh, cool. I’m Owen.” He cocked his head to the side and I could almost see the gears in his mind turning. Slowly, Owen turned my way, lifting a brow and pointing at me.
“I see Liam a lot when Chef and I cook together,” I tried.
“Right.” Owen still wasn’t convinced, but he put out his fist for Liam to bump.
Then the team swarmed us again, and we were lost to the mass of sweaty, happy bodies.
But I was missing one body in particular, one that was about five foot four, blonde, and full of smart comebacks.
Owen and I got mobbed by press in the locker room. I sat in my stall to remove my pads and skates, answering questions while I put on my sandals. By my fifth minute of interview questions, I was down to my base layers and had to call a timeout. “Sorry, guys, I’m really hungry. I gotta go bother Chef.”
That got a laugh from the reporters as I slipped past them to the dining room, then the kitchen. And there she was, my chef, my Emma, eyes sparkling as she took me in. I strode her way, eating up the space between us.
“Past your floor tile,” she said with a smirk.
