“That,” he says slowly, “was the most terrifying thing I’ve experienced since the third period in Vancouver.”
“But?”
“But.” He swallows hard. “You’re an incredible driver.”
“I KNOW.”
“And the car sounded amazing.”
“I KNOW. I’ve been TELLING you.”
“And you look—” He stops. “Fuck. The way you look behind the wheel of my car is going to be a problem for me.”
I climb across the console before he finishes the sentence. My knee hits the gear shift and I yelp and he laughs into my mouth, a surprised, relieved, slightly unhinged sound, and I’m laughing too and kissing him and neither of us can stop. The adrenaline is still burning through me and his mouth is on my neck and I can feel his heart slamming through his hoodie.
He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. “We should go back.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves. He’s looking at me like he can’t decide if I’m the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to him.
“The playoffs start in four days,” he says, and I know what he’s really saying—after the season, we tell him, the clock is running—but I don’t want to talk about the clock right now.
“The playoffs start in four days,” he repeats. “After the season. We tell him. You promised.”
“I know.”
“I’m driving home.” He unbuckles his seatbelt. “And we’re going the speed limit. And we are never coming back to this place. Ever. In any car. For any reason.”
I laugh so hard I can’t breathe, leaning against the window, while he walks around to the driver’s side and pulls out onto the road at exactly thirty-five miles per hour. Both hands on the wheel. Checking every intersection twice.
I put my feet on the dash.
“Feet off the dash.”
“You are no fun.”
“You had enough fun tonight for both of us.” He glances over. “You’re never driving this car again.”
“You say that now.”
“I mean it. Never again. This was a one-time thing.”
“You said that about letting me stay over on a gamenight and now I have a key to your apartment.”
He sighs, shaking his head because he knows he lost this round and I lean my head against the window and watch the city go by. The playoffs and my dad and the weight of everything that’s coming. But right now, driving home at the speed limit in a Mustang that finally knows what it can do, I let it all go.
It’s the last normal night before everything changes.
23
ZACH
The building soundsdifferent in the playoffs.
I’ve been saying playoff hockey is a different sport since I was sixteen and it’s always been true in theory but sitting on an NHL playoff bench for the first time turns the theory into something I can feel. Game 1 at home. Twenty thousand people and the noise never fully stops—between whistles it dips but doesn’t disappear and during play it swells into something that makes my chest vibrate and my stick shake. I’ve played in front of crowds before but these people believe something is at stake and that belief changes the air.
Luca takes it personally. Every shot that gets past the defense is an insult and he stops it like he’s settling a score. Six minutes into the first he makes a glove save so clean I watch the shooter look at his stick like it betrayed him.
