Soren threw his hands up and turned toward the bench, and I was already skating toward him. The rest of the team piled on, gloves and sticks going everywhere, everyone screaming and the crowd losing their collective minds.
We'd won. We were through to the semifinals.
I grabbed Soren and pulled him close, our helmets knocking together, both of us grinning like idiots.
“You did it,” I said. “You fucking did it.”
“We did it,” he corrected. “That was your pass.”
“Your shot.”
“Our play.”
The celebration continued around us. But all I could see was Soren, sweaty and exhilarated and looking more alive than I'd seen him in weeks.
This was it. The breakaway beat. Hockey and music and the two of us finally hitting the same rhythm again after all the years apart. The title had been right there the whole time, waiting for us to find it.
“I love you,” I said, loud enough to be heard over the chaos.
“I love you too, you insane bastard.” He laughed and pulled me in for a hug that lifted me off my skates. “Can't believe you made me do this.”
“Can't believe you actually scored the game-winner.”
“We're never going to hear the end of this, are we?”
“Not a chance.”
The team skated a victory lap and the crowd showered us with noise. Soren stayed next to me the whole time, and when we passed the section where his siblings and my parents were sitting, the screaming got even louder.
This was everything. The championship we'd lost, the years we'd missed, the future we were building. All of it wrapped up in one impossible playoff goal and fifteen thousand people bearing witness.
We headed back to the locker room and the celebration kicked into high gear. Music blaring, guys screaming, the pure unfiltered joy of advancing when everything had been on the line.
Coach found me in the chaos and clapped me on the shoulder. “Hell of a call, Kincaid.”
“Hell of a shot,” I said, nodding toward Soren.
“Best emergency activation in league history.” He shook his head, still looking amazed. “We're going to be talking about this game for decades.”
Yeah. We were.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
break the chain
SOREN
Rook was still asleep next to me, one arm thrown across my chest like he could anchor me to the bed through sheer proximity. I wanted to stay there. Wanted to burrow into the warmth and safety of his presence and pretend today wasn't happening.
But the clock on the nightstand said six-fifteen, and the hearing was at nine, and there was no universe where I got to hide from this.
I slipped out of bed without waking him and headed to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looked older than I felt — shadows under the eyes, tension in the jaw, the beginnings of lines around my mouth that hadn't been there a few years ago. I looked like a man who'd been carrying weight for too long, and I guessed that was accurate enough.
The suit Rook had bought me hung on the back of the door. Charcoal gray, professionally tailored, the kind of thing that saidresponsible adult instead of struggling musician who sometimes ate ramen three nights in a row. I stared at it for a long moment before forcing myself to shower.
By the time I came back out, Rook was awake and making coffee in the kitchen. He looked up when he heard me, and the expression on his face was so full of quiet concern that I had to look away before it cracked me open.
“You okay?” he asked.
