It does something violent to my chest.
During the next whistle, Connor glides into my crease before the ref can yell at him. “You smiled at her.”
“Get out of my net.”
Connor actually looks offended. “Brother, you look like you’re one missed paycheck away from writing poetry.”
Jake skates by laughing.
Ford shakes his head from farther down the ice. “This is getting hard to watch.”
I glare at all of them.
Unfortunately, Connor isn’t finished. “She’s wearing the hoodie.”
I don’t respond.
Mostly because I know if I do, these idiots will never let me live it down.
But something ugly and possessive still tightens low in my chest every time I see her in it.
Mine.The thought hits me hard.
It’s dangerous. Wrong.
But way too fucking satisfying.
The whistle blows again before Connor can keep talking.
Thank God.
The rest of the scrimmage blurs together after that.
I stop three consecutive shots.
I flash the glove, making a high-profile catch that has the crowd going wild.
Connor gets shoved into the boards after trying to chirp me during a breakaway attempt.
And through all of it, I still keep looking toward the stands. At Peyton.
Like some part of me needs visual confirmation she’s still there.
When the final whistle blows, the crowd cheers loudly while we skate off the ice.
I glance up one last time before disappearinginto the tunnel.
Peyton’s still watching me.
And somehow?
That feels bigger than the entire fucking game.
Steam still clings faintlyto my skin when I step out of the locker room nearly forty minutes later.
Most of the crowd has cleared out now. The hallway outside the tunnel is quieter.
I shift my gear bag higher on my shoulder and pick up my pace.
