“Romeo—”
“Just you, JuJu. No one else.”
I kiss her, meaning for it to be quick but she opens her mouth under mine and everything else fades away. When I pull back, her cheeks are pink and her eyes slightly unfocused.
“Go,” she says, but her hands are fisted in my shirt. “Before someone sees.”
“Let them see.” I grin and step back, already backing toward our room. “See you after the game.”
“After your nap.”
“After my nap,” I agree. “I’ll be dreaming of you.”
Her laugh follows me into the room, where I definitely don’t nap because I’m too busy thinking about tonight.
Game time.
The arena is packed with Calgary fans who are loud and hostile from the moment we step on the ice. Red jerseys everywhere, cowbells, drums, some guy behind our bench already three beers deep and screaming creative insults about our mothers. This is their building. Their ice.
But we’re here to take it from them.
I step onto the ice for warm-ups and immediately scan for Juliette. She’s in the third row wearing the white jersey, her hair down and falling over my name and looks up like she can feel me watching. Our eyes meet across the ice and I skate over and tap my stickagainst the glass. She smiles and shakes her head like I’m ridiculous.
Tonight. Tonight I’m going to give her a game to remember.
Warm-ups fly by in a blur of routine—circles, shots, stretches. The anthem plays and I mouth the words while bouncing on my skates, energy crackling through my legs. We line up for the opening faceoff.
We trade chances for the first few minutes, everyone feeling each other out, testing. Calgary’s playing heavy, finishing every check, trying to establish physical dominance early.
Then at 5:32 of the first period, everything changes.
Brody strips the puck at the blue line and feeds it to me breaking through the neutral zone. I catch it in stride, the puck settling on my stick like it belongs there.
I fake right, cut left, and suddenly I’m in the slot with nothing but space and time.
I don’t think. Just shoot.
The puck leaves my stick with that perfect feeling—when you know it’s in before the goalie even moves, before the puck even reaches the net. Bar-down. The best sound in hockey.
The red light goes on. The horn blares loud enough to shake my bones.
Our bench erupts.
I skate toward the family section with my arms raised and point directly at her, making sure she knows. Making sure everyone knows.
She’s on her feet with both hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise and something else. Something that looks like “oh shit, he’s actually doing this.”
One goal.
One.
The thought of what that means later makes blood rush in my ears, makes me want to score ten more just to see that look on her face again.
Dex crashes into me, helmet to helmet hard enough to rattle my brain. “Beauty shot, Roddy!”
“Thanks, man.”
“Keep it up. They’re rattled.”
