"You looked so determined," I laughed, the tension breaking into something light and playful. "And honestly? I didn't have the heart to tell you. I was enjoying the conversation too much to let it end after thirty seconds. It wasn't a waste, Landry. Not for me."
Michael let out a huff, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked at the sidewalk, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his collar. "I’m a total dufus. Supposed to be a vet, but I can't even navigate a single city block without getting played."
"It was a very scenic three miles," I teased.
I stepped in close again and rose up on my tiptoes to press a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, my skin lingering against the stubble of his jaw just long enough to feel the heat radiating off him.
"Goodnight, Michael. Try not to get lost on the way to your car."
I turned before I could see his reaction, heading for the shadows of the alleyway. I climbed the metal stairs, the clang of my boots echoing in the quiet night, and didn't look back until I reached the top landing. When I finally glanced down, he wasstill standing there on the sidewalk, staring up at my window like a man who had just realized the long game was going to be a lot more complicated than he’d imagined.
11
Michael
Revenge was in the air. Game 2. The "Veteran Blunder" was still a headline in the morning papers, a sour taste in my mouth that no amount of pre-game espresso could wash away.
I sat on the bench, watching the first line grind out the opening minutes. The Wild were playing that same suffocating, mid-ice clog that had killed us last time.
"Michael! Shawn! Get out there and stretch the zone!" Coach hollered over the roar.
I hopped over the boards, the steel of my skates biting into the fresh sheet of ice. The transition from the warm bench to the freezing, high-velocity chaos of the shift always felt like being dropped into a blender.
"Grayson, stay high! I’m going to the dirty water!" I yelled, pointing my stick toward the crease.
The play developed fast. Shawn forced a turnover at the blue line, chipping the puck past a Wild defenseman. I put my head down, my lungs burning as I accelerated. I wasn't skating with finesse; I was skating with a grudge. I beat the defender to the corner, initiated a heavy shoulder-to-shoulder contact that sent him stumbling into the plexiglass, and came out with the puck.
"Center! Center!" Grayson was screaming.
I whipped a backhand pass through a thicket of skates. He caught it, fired, and—ping. Crossbar. The crowd let out a collective groan that shook the rafters.
"Keep the pressure! Don't let 'em breathe!" Hunter shouted from the far end, his stick blade rapping against the ice to keep us focused.
The first period ended in a scoreless deadlock, but the energy had shifted. In the locker room, the silence wasn't heavy anymore; it was coiled.
"Landry, you’re winning those board battles," Coach said, pacing the center of the room. "But they’re cheating toward the slot. Landon, start curling back. Landry, I want you to drive the net. If you don't have the puck, be the screen. Make life miserable for their goalie."
Second period. Three minutes in.
We were on the power play. I was stationed right in front of the Wild’s netminder, a mountain of a man who kept trying to shove me out of his sightline. He hacked at my calves as I leaned my weight back into his chest.
"Get out of the way, old man," he grunted.
"Make me.”
Tucker fired a rocket from the point. I didn't see the puck so much as I felt the vibration of it whistling past my ear. I stayed planted, a human screen. With their goalie blinded, the puck ricocheted off his shoulder, and Landon was there to bury the rebound.
1-0, Surge.
The arena erupted. I felt a gloved hand slam into my back. Tucker. He didn't say anything, but the nod he gave me as weheaded to the bench was the first bit of real ground I’d gained in that locker room all season.
But the Wild weren't folding. They tied it up halfway through the third on a fluke deflection that left Hunter stranded. 1-1. The ghost of Game 1 started creeping back into the arena, and the fans grew quiet.
"Five minutes left!" Coach barked during a TV timeout. "Who wants to be the hero? Because I’m tired of looking at a tie."
I looked at Landon. He was sucking wind, his face a bright, alarming red. "We go heavy. Forecheck until their lungs give out."
We hit the ice for the final push. The pace was suicidal. I tracked the puck into our defensive zone, lifting a Wild player’s stick and stripping the puck with a precision I hadn't felt in years. I turned, pivoted, and saw the ice open up.
