Page 123

BISHOP

The puck hits Hutch’s stick and ends up in the fucking net.

The horn sounds and Ignite Arena erupts.

Hutch stares at the goal for half a second, like he’s as surprised as the rest of us, before Deacon nearly takes him out against the boards.

“Holy shit,” Jax yells, crashing into the pile. “Hutch can score!”

“Fuck you.”

I grab Hutch by the helmet and shove him excitedly toward the bench. “Hell yeah!”

It’s our only goal so far, which would be less concerning if Hutch weren’t our fourth-line winger.

Coach confirms that approximately ten seconds later.

“Hutchinson scoring is great,” he barks when we crowd around the bench. “But Hutchinson being the only one scoring is a fucking problem. Wake up, boys!”

Hutch squirts water into his mouth. “Still counts.”

“Not helping,” I tell him. He grins in response.

I swing a leg over the boards for the next shift.

The noise hits first. Twenty thousand people vibrating through the building, skates cutting fresh lines into the ice, sticks hitting boards. The cold air carries that familiar mix of ice, sweat, and rubber that I’ve smelled like home for as long as I can remember.

Then everything narrows, and I feel the familiar calm take over, my mind filling with the game until there’s no room for anything else. This is where the magic happens.

Read the ice. Find the opening. Make the play.

Montreal’s left defenseman cheats toward me before I even touch the puck. Mercer is already cutting through the neutral zone. Jax holds wide. Their center shifts to cover the lane between us. There.

I take the puck across the blue line and drive toward the middle. One defenseman follows. Then the second. Exactly what I want. Fuck yes!

I hold it one beat longer. Long enough for both of them to commit. Jax sees the opening at the same time I do.

I send the puck through, and his stick connects.

Red light.

The building fucking explodes again. Jax points at me as he skates past. “Pretty.”

“I know.” I can’t wipe the dumb ass smile off my face.

“I meant the pass, asshole.”

“Sure.”

Mercer slams a glove against my helmet. We head toward the bench, and my gaze goes where it’s been going all fucking night. Section near center ice.

Brown messy bun. Flushed cheeks. Green sweatshirt. She’s on her feet with everyone else, clapping and smiling.

I turn before she catches me staring. The last thing she needs from me is more mixed signals. Friday morning has been replaying in my head for more than twenty-four hours.

Waking up with her on top of me. The sweet scent of vanilla surrounding me. The fucking sound she made when my mouth touched her neck. The way she moved against me.

And most of all… the confusion on her face when I practically threw her off my lap.