The team erupted into cheers and chirping, and my siblings were making so much noise I could barely think, but all I could focus on was the fact that Rook had just kissed me in front of everyone who mattered. No hiding, no ambiguity, no careful distance.
Just chosen. Publicly and completely.
“Alright, get out of here,” Coach's voice cut through the chaos. He was standing in the doorway with his arms crossed and an expression that might have been annoyed if you didn't know him well enough to see the smile he was hiding. “Game starts in thirty minutes and I need my captain focused.”
“Yes, Coach,” Rook said, but he was still looking at me.
We got herded back out into the hallway, and the staff member led us up to the VIP section while my siblings continued to roast me about the boyfriend reveal. By the time we settled into our seats — actual cushioned seats with cup holders and a perfect view of the ice — I was pretty sure my face was going to be permanently red.
Martin had already claimed the seat next to me and was explaining the rules of hockey to Micah with the enthusiasm of a man who'd been waiting his entire life for this exact conversation. Martha was on his other side, looking serene and unbothered by the chaos. My siblings were arranged around me, all of them leaning forward with the kind of anticipation that made me remember why I'd loved this game so much when I was their age.
The arena filled up around us, the noise building until it was almost physical. The lights went down and the intro video started playing, and when the Wolves skated out onto the ice the entire building erupted.
I found Rook immediately. Number eleven, captain's C on his chest, moving with the kind of controlled grace that made it look easy even though I knew it wasn't. He did a lap with the team and then took his position at center ice for the opening faceoff, and when he looked up toward the VIP section I swear he was looking right at me.
The ref dropped the puck and Rook won the draw clean, snapping it back to Dmitri on the blue line. The game was on.
I'd forgotten what it felt like to watch hockey when you actually understood it. Not just the surface level stuff that casual fans saw, but the real architecture of the game — the positioning, the reads, the way a good team moved like a single organism with twenty different parts all working toward the same goal.
The Wolves came out flying. High pressure, aggressive forechecking, making the Raiders work for every inch of ice. Rook was everywhere, directing traffic with his stick and his voice, the captain thing written all over the way he moved.
“What's happening?” Poppy asked, leaning forward in her seat. “Why are they going so fast?”
“They're establishing tempo,” I said, keeping my eyes on the play. “Setting the tone early. The team that controls the first five minutes usually controls the game.” I pointed at the ice. “Watch number nineteen — that's Jace. He's got the puck on the wing, and he's looking for Rook in the slot.”
Jace carried the puck into the offensive zone with speed, his edges cutting hard as he maneuvered around a defender. The Raiders' defense collapsed toward him, and that's when he made the pass — a quick cross-ice feed that found Rook perfectly positioned between the hash marks.
Rook didn't even hesitate. One-timer, top shelf, bar down. The goalie didn't have a prayer.
The goal horn blared and the arena fucking erupted. The sound was physical, vibrating through my chest, and I was on my feet screaming before I'd consciously decided to stand.
Poppy was shrieking next to me, jumping up and down and grabbing my arm. “HE SCORED! ROOK SCORED!”
“I KNOW!” I yelled back, watching Rook get mobbed by his linemates. The celebration was pure joy — gloves off, helmets knocked sideways, everyone piling on.
Martin was hugging Martha, who was laughing and clapping. Talia had her phone out filming everything, and Micah was asking rapid-fire questions about what just happened.
“That was six minutes in,” I said when the noise died down enough to hear myself think. “That's huge. Early goal, home crowd going insane — that's momentum you can ride all night.”
“Explain what happened,” Micah demanded. “Like, specifically.”
I grinned. “Okay, so Jace drew two defenders to him because he's a goal-scorer and they had to respect the threat. That created space in the middle — the slot, where Rook was waiting. Jace saw it, made the pass, and Rook just fucking hammered it before the goalie could reset his positioning. Perfect execution.”
“That's so cool,” Poppy breathed.
The game restarted and the Wolves kept the pressure on. The Raiders were good but the Wolves were playing with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly who they were and what they could do.
Rook won another faceoff and sent it back to Tate on the point. The play developed slowly this time, patient, the Wolves cycling the puck around the offensive zone and forcing the Raiders to chase. I watched Rook drift toward the net, creatinga screen, and when Tate wound up for the shot Rook tipped it perfectly.
The puck changed direction mid-flight, fooling the goalie completely, but it clanged off the post and out. The crowd groaned in unison.
“So close!” Poppy said.
“That's high-level shit,” I told her. “Tipping a shot like that requires insane hand-eye coordination. Most players can't do it.”
“But Rook can?”
“Rook can do pretty much everything.”
