Page 219 of Puck Me Back to Life

I smile into it. “We're at work.”

“We're early.”

“There's a difference?”

“There is if nobody catches us.”

Before I can answer, Tyler walks past carrying two sticks. “Oh, for God's sake.”

Ash sighs dramatically. “What?”

Tyler gestures between us. “Could Mom and Dad please stop flirting until after warmups?”

I groan. “We're never escaping that nickname, are we?”

“Nope.”

Dante appears from around the corner with an energy drink already in his hand.

“I still say I'm your favorite child.”

Ash doesn't even look at him. “We should've given you up for adoption.”

Tyler nods solemnly.

I laugh as Ash pinches the bridge of his nose.

None of us knows exactly how the nickname started. Somewhere during the season, social media decided that Ash and I had somehow become the parents of the Wizards. Apparently, every time Ash lectured someone about nutrition or sleep schedules while I quietly handed them snacks afterward, another meme was born.

Dante framed one of them for Christmas. It's hanging in our hallway.

Ash claims he hates it.

He is lying.

Warmups are loud in the best possible way. The crowd is already filtering into the arena as we step onto the ice, and thousands of people greet us with cheers that echo through the building. A year ago, I would've searched those faces for someone who hated me.

Tonight, I just wave.

Across the red line, Noah skates toward me. He taps the blade of his stick against mine.

“You planning on embarrassing me tonight?”

“I was actually hoping to embarrass you specifically, yes.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Good. I'd be worried if you stopped.” He grins before pushing away toward center ice.

It still amazes me sometimes. We aren't best friends. We probably never will be. But somewhere between difficult conversations, shared road trips, therapy, and choosing every single day to stop carrying our grief like weapons, we became teammates. Real teammates. I trust him. I think he trusts me too.

Sometimes that's enough.

The game is everything Opening Night should be. Fast. Physical. Loud. Every shift feels lighter than the last, and somewhere midway through the third period Noah picks the puck free along the boards before sliding it across the slot.

I don't think.

I shoot.

The puck snaps into the top corner.