Page 104 of Offside Angle

Elias is still going, fully committed to his role as the hockey gods’ chosen motivational speaker.

“—and when we walk out there tonight, we walk out knowing we’re better than them. Because we are. We’ve got the skill, we’ve got the chemistry, and we’ve got the best fucking goalie in the league who’s gonna shut their asses down—”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, babe,” Shane calls out lazily.

Elias grins wider. “See? Even O’Rourke agrees with me. We’re winning this shit.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and stare at the floor between my skates.

Just get through sixty minutes without doing something stupid. Just play hockey. Don’t let them get in your head. Don’t—

“Rivera.” Damian’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I look up.

He’s staring right at me.

“You good?”

I swallow and force my mouth into something that probably looks like a smile. “Yeah, Coach. I’m good.”

I’m not. Not even a little.

But I’ll be fine once we’re on the ice. I always am.

Mostly.

I stand up with everyone else when Damian tells us it’s time.

We file out of the locker room in a line, sticks tapping against the walls, the low murmur of last-second nerves following us down the hallway. My heart’s already beating harder than it should be.

Santi’s waiting at the end of the tunnel as usual, camera raised, red light blinking as he films us walking out. He’s dressed in black, calm as ever, apparently untouched by the weight of a Finals game while the rest of us are carrying it in our bones.

I don’t think. I just act.

As I pass him, I tug my right glove off with my teeth. My hand finds his waist without hesitation. I catch his eyes for half a second and wink, putting on enough confidence to hide the fact that I’m about to skate into the most important game of the season with my stomach in knots.

Santi doesn’t flinch. His mouth curves into that small, private smile he only gives me when no one else is really looking. “Give them hell, cariño,” he says.

The words send a slow rush of heat down my spine. I don’t answer out loud. I just squeeze his waist once, quick and possessive, before pulling my hand back, shoving my glove on again, and heading for the ice without another word.

Then I’m moving again, stepping out of the tunnel and into the blinding lights and deafening noise of the arena.

The second my skates hit the ice, the crowd explodes. Red and black jerseys everywhere. The bass from the pre-game music vibrates through the boards. I take my usual lap, stick tapping the ice, trying to shake out the nerves that are still crawling under my skin.

I circle back toward our net, where Shane is already doing his weird goalie stretches and talking to himself. Cole bumps my shoulder as he skates past.

I take my spot on the blue line as the vets get ready for the opening shift. Shane’s already in the net doing his last-second stretches, tapping his posts with the kind of hostility usually reserved for actual enemies. Viktor’s beside me, quiet and massive, eyes locked on the other end as he apparently decides which Vanguard player he wants to destroy first.

Elias skates up to the faceoff circle with enough swagger to claim the whole damn rink. Luca’s already waiting there—tall, pretty, cocky as hell, the same guy who tried to flirt with Cole back in preseason and ended up with Viktor’s fist in his face for it. He still won’t look Cole in the eye. Smart.

Elias leans in close. “Still pretty, Luca. Shame about the personality.”

Luca’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t take the bait. He just sets his stick and stares straight ahead.

Elias grins, already pleased with himself.

The ref drops the puck.

Elias wins it clean, kicking it back to me. I take it and move. The second the play starts, it’s on.