Every time I came off the ice, I had to consciously stop myself from looking at where Ava was sitting. I could feel her though, like a magnet pulling at my awareness.
Focus.
With two minutes left in the period, we got our chance. Foster carried the puck into their zone and dropped it back to Drew at the blue line. I positioned myself in front of their net, boxing out their defenseman. Drew saw me and fired a slap shot that I deflected past their goalie’s glove.
1-0, Lumberjacks.
The arena erupted. The guys slammed into me, screaming something I couldn’t hear over the crowd. I was grinning like an idiot, riding the high of the goal, when I made the mistake of looking up again.
Ava was on her feet, cheering with both arms raised above her head. Drew’s parents were standing too, his mom bouncing Rory gently. Even from the ice, I could see the pride on Ava’s face—pride forme—and something twisted in my chest.
I focused back on the game.
MSU tied it up early in the second period on a goal that deflected off Gordy’s pad and trickled in. We regrouped at center ice for the face-off, the sting of that one still buzzing. The goal lit them up—their bench was loud, their forecheck sharper—but we weathered the push. Three minutes later, Foster buried a rebound off a beautiful passing play, and just like that, the momentum swung back our way.
Drew was playing the best hockey of his life. Every pass was crisp; every defensive play was textbook perfect. When their fastest winger tried to break free on a rush, Drew matched his speed stride for stride and poke-checked thepuck away cleanly. He’d finally gotten over his funk and just in time.
“Holy shit, Drew,” I called as I skated past him, unable to keep the grin off my face. “You’re playing like you’re possessed.”
“Just trying to keep up with you,” he shot back.
The third period was a fucking war. MSU came out flying, knowing this was their last chance. They peppered Gordy with everything they had, but our goalie was standing on his head, making saves that had no business being made.
With five minutes left, their coach called time-out, and I could see the desperation in their eyes when they came back out on the ice.
But we weren’t about to let them have this.
When the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard read 3-2, Lumberjacks.
I skated toward Drew and threw my body at him, unable to contain myself. “We fucking won!”
The celebration was chaos—guys piling on top of each other, sticks flying through the air, fans screaming so loud I couldn’t hear my own thoughts. Drew was grinning like I’d never seen him grin before, and for a moment I let myself get swept up in it.
But through all of it—through the hugs and the screaming and the pure, unfiltered euphoria—I kept thinking of Ava.
I glanced her direction only to find Ava already looking right at me.
Our eyes met across the chaos.
She smiled—that big, bright smile that suddenly felt like it was just for me—and everyone else in the rink disappeared.
I couldn’t go to her. I couldn’t kiss her in front of everyone the way Foster was currently kissing his girlfriend, Abby. I couldn’t let anyone know that she was the reason I’d played so hard, the reason my blood was singing with something more than victory.
But I could hold her gaze for one more second. I could let myself feel this—whatever this was—before I had to lock it away again.
We’d won the championship and yet, the trophy wasn’t the best part of tonight.
The best part was the girl in the stands, smiling down at me like she was my own personal sun.
SIXTEEN
I wanted to run up and kiss him as the guys poured out of the locker room, but I held myself back—barely.
Our gazes locked as everyone swarmed them. The corner of his lips lifted and he winked, his green eyes shining with the heat I’d grown far too fond of over the last few weeks.
Ryan Donovan, a senior football player who lived in the Den—the house next door to the hockey house—raised his voice to be heard over the crowd. “Party at the Den to celebrate these guys!”
Cheers and whoops broke out because everyone knew the Den threw the best parties, especially when they were celebrating an athletic victory.
