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There was a long beat of silence before Cally’s slurred voice cut through the quiet.

“I thought you said he was your college roommate.”

“No. He said he was his best friend,” I corrected just as loudly, bumping against Cally’s shoulder. He stumbled and hiccuped out a laugh.

“Cool it, you two. It’s clear he’s all three,” Lavoie cut in, his smile wide as the people around us moved to gather around the happy couple, Monroe slapping T’s back while Bonesy shook Sebastian’s hand.

Cally swayed toward me, hiccuping again, and dropped his voice low. “Holy shit, M. You were right. Everyone on this team is fucking queer.”

THIRTY

MIKEY

Sixty seconds were left on the clock, and we were clinging to a razor-thin lead. “Chip it out; get it off the glass,” I muttered as Minnesota pulled their goalie. “Hold the fucking line.”

Morrison threw a shoulder into their center as the clock showed thirty seconds, then twenty.

Bell scooped the puck off the wall at our own blue line and broke out, leaving their defenders to chase after him. With three seconds left on the clock, the puck slid into the middle of an empty net. The red light flashed and the horn blew as eighteen thousand fans groaned.

I vaulted over the boards with the rest of my team, charging into the corner and hurling myself straight into the dogpile, screaming at the top of my lungs until my throat felt raw.

In the locker room, Bell gripped my shoulders and shook me like a rag doll. “Way to fucking go out there tonight!” he exclaimed, handing me the puck from the goal I’d scored in the second period.

During a bit of messy, broken play, I’d caught the puck on my backhand, driving it straight over the goalie’s blocker into the top corner. Had it been pure, blind luck? Absolutely. Was I going to pretend I wasn’t proud as fuck? No fucking way—I’d scored my first NHL goal in my hometown arena!

I was trying not to appear too smug about it, but judging by the way Mercer kept snorting every time he looked my way, I wasn’t exactly succeeding.

Coach walked into the room and whistled loudly. “All right. Settle down!”

It took a solid minute for us to quiet down enough for his standard post-game commentary.

“Solid effort out there tonight, boys,” he said, pacing back and forth. “Great communication on that first penalty kill. Morrison, you made a hell of a play keeping that puck in at the blue line on the power play, and Porter showed us that when you stay sharp on a broken play, you can find the back of the net.”

Koffee bleated an enthusiastically loud pew-pew-pew sound effect, while Lavoie threw a wadded-up ball of used tape at me.

“You boys worked hard this trip. You should be proud of yourselves. What’s more, I’m proud of you. Eight points out of twelve on this trip—who woulda thunk?”

“Not me!” Nielson hollered, earning a few awkward chuckles and one loud groan.

“Hey Coach!” Bell stepped away from his stall, his arms lifted to tie his long blond hair into a bun at the back of his head, a grin tipping his lips to the side.

“Yeah, Cap?”

He moved to stand at Coach’s side. “A little birdie told me if we won tonight, you might give us a special reward.”

Coach rocked back on his heels and rubbed his chin. “Is that so?”

“Ooh! No morning skate on Tuesday!” Dawes shot out. Of note, his girlfriend was arriving on Monday for a quick two-day stay.

“An extra day off!” Bogart shouted at the same time.

“You’re matching the fine board?” Morrison supplied. When Bonesy got hurt, he’d taken over Fine Master duties.

Coach shook his head, muttering, “None of you are even close.”

“So what is it then?” Stockhard asked.

“You wanna tell them or should I?” Coach said, looking at Bell.