By the third period, the score was tied 2-2. The electricity in the building was borderline terminal. Every person in the stands was screaming, a wall of sound that closed us in completely.
With three minutes left, Michael took a pass at the point. The Dallas defender lunged, trying to poke the puck away, but Michael used that fluid weight shift he’d tried to teach Gabe. He stepped around the reach, walked the line, and let a wrister fly. It was a seeing-eye shot, weaving through a screen of four bodies before hitting the top corner with a melodic ping of the crossbar.
The Surge bench erupted. Gabe screamed so loud his voice cracked, and I found myself on my feet, hands over my mouth, tears pricking my eyes. It was crazy how the excitement swept me up in a tangle of emotion.
Michael didn't celebrate with a flamboyant slide this time. He just high-fived his teammates and looked straight at our section. He tapped his gloved hand against his chest, and then pointed at us.
The final whistle blew with the Surge holding onto the 3-2 lead. The adrenaline was still burning in my veins as the players filedoff the ice. When Michael passed our row, he stopped for a beat, drenched in sweat, face flushed, and a small cut bleeding on his lip.
He just looked at me, his chest heaving, and eyes filled with everything we hadn't said in that motel room. He reached over the glass and ruffled Gabe’s hair, a quick, masculine gesture, before vanishing into the tunnel.
"Have you bothered telling him he’s just a friend?" Gabe said, and started gathering his things.
I didn't have the energy to argue with him over this anymore. My heart was a mess of pride, fear, and a longing so sharp it hurt to breathe. We had won the game, but as I watched the empty tunnel where Michael had disappeared, I realized I was losing the battle to keep my heart guarded.
The road trip wasn't over, and neither was the feeling that, for the first time in fifteen years, I wasn't just surviving. I was falling.
The high of the win was a physical thing, a hum in the air that followed the crowd out of the arena and into the cooling Dallas night. Everywhere I looked, there were jerseys, mostly the deep green and black of the Stars, but a healthy, defiant scattering of Surge blue.
"Did you see that save in the second? The one where Michael literally tied up the winger’s stick so he couldn't get the rebound?" Gabe’s hands moved in rapid-fire gestures as we shuffled toward the exit. "That’s what he was talking about before. Gap control. It’s the difference between a goal and a whistle."
"I saw it," I said, a smile tugging at my lips. It was impossible not to be swept up in his excitement, especially when it felt like the first time in years we were speaking the same language."I also saw you screaming like a banshee when he scored. I’m pretty sure the person in front of us is going to need a hearing aid."
"Whatever, Mom. It was a game-winner. In Dallas. Do you know how huge that is for the series momentum?"
"I'm starting to get the idea," I laughed, adjusting the strap of my purse. The lights of the city were starting to blink on, competing with the stars in the clearest of skies. "So, what’s the move for dinner? We could find a burger place, or maybe try that taco spot Michael mentioned? I don't think I can look at another waffle for at least two weeks"
Gabe didn't answer. He had slowed his pace, his eyes darting toward the side of the arena where the player's entrance and the team buses were located.
"Gabe?"
"Hold on," he said, his voice suddenly sharp and focused. Before I could ask what he was doing, he veered away from the main flow of the crowd. He didn't look back, weaving through the groups of fans with a practiced, athletic agility.
"Gabe! Where are you going?" I called out, but he was already a dozen yards away, his neon-green hat a beacon in the sea of people.
I stopped near a concrete planter outside the main gates, letting the crowd flow around me like a river. I sighed, leaning back against the cold stone. I knew exactly where he was headed. He wasn't looking for food or a souvenir. He was looking for the man who had spent the last six hours being his hero on the ice.
I settled in to wait, watching the shadows of the arena, wondering if Michael was ready for the kind of unfiltered, wide-eyed praise Gabe was about to unload on him, and wondering ifI was ready for the look Michael would give me when he finally walked out of those doors.
23
Michael
The adrenaline was still surging in my veins, a dull electric thrum that made my skin feel too tight for my cool down gear. The locker room was a chaotic sanctuary of shouting, ice packs, and the heavy scent of victory, but I needed air. I’d showered in record time, bypassed the media scrum with a polite nod to Holly, and headed for the quiet of the back hallway.
I pushed through the heavy double doors leading toward the player exit, expecting the usual line of autograph seekers or the quiet of the cooling Dallas night.
Instead, I found a single, skinny shadow leaning against the concrete wall.
"Gabe?" I stopped, shifting my gym bag to my other shoulder. "I thought your mom would have you halfway to a taco stand by now."
He pushed off the wall, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He looked different than he had at the rink, less guarded. His shoulders dropped from that defensive hunch he usually wore, and he looked at me with a curious expression I couldn’t pin down.
"She’s waiting by the main gate," he said. "I just... I wanted to say something."
I leaned back against the cool brick, giving him the space. "Yeah? What’s up?"
Gabe took a breath, looking down at his sneakers before meeting my eyes. "Thanks again. For the driving thing. And for... you know. Keeping your mouth shut about the other night. I know you didn't have to. You could've used it to make yourself look like the hero or whatever."
