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The young guys stop reacting and start finishing plays a half-second before Boston expects them.

Tied at one each, deep in the third, Boston loads up for a slap shot and I do the stupid thing. I drop my stick and take it off the hand, killing it on impact while the pain flashes right through my wrist.

I skate off with my glove tucked against my ribs while the trainer prods my knuckles.

It fucking hurts, but I'm not going down.

Not tonight.

I look down the bench and watch Boston start peeling our confidence apart shift by shift, and I pull the glove back on before anyone approves it.

"Stratton, you're injured."

I grunt and shake my head. "It bends. It's fine."

By the final minute, I get back on the ice, still locked in a tie game. Boston breaks out of their zone with the lazy confidence of a team that's decided overtime suits them fine, and their defenseman telegraphs the pass by a fraction of a second.

I step into the lane and pick it off clean, my hands still pulsing inside my glove.

Two Boston players converge on me, which is exactly what I want, because it means Aidan is alone in the middle.

I slide it to him, he redirects it through traffic without even looking—the filthiest little touch pass of the tournament—and Nate is flying down the wing with nothing between him and the net.

He buries it under the crossbar and the goal horn explodes with red light.

Snow cannons erupt over the rink, the enormous Christmas tree launches into a strobing victory sequence set to a song about grandmas and reindeer, and Nate does not celebrate with his team. Nate sprints across the ice, vaults the boards, lifts Eden clean off her feet and spins her while the crowd swarms them both at the side boards.

Then the entire Wildcards roster buries him.

"REMEMBER WHO SCORED!" he screams from under six hundred pounds of teammates. "HISTORY WILL REMEMBER—"

I look up toward the viewing lounge where Big Mike stands at the glass in his overcoat, watching me instead of the celebration. He smiles, tips his festive hat, then winks and walks off with Colin Holden like two men who have just won a bet nobody else knew about.

In the tunnel afterward, Callahan finds me for exactly thirty seconds.

"Hell of a read on that turnover, kid." He presses a card into my good hand. "I've got some calls to make, but let's meet tomorrow evening after the sponsor dinner. I'll have reviewed some things with our management by then, and we'll talk properly."

I look down at his card and nod, hope flashing inside my chest.

"I'll be there."

He disappears into the crowd, and I slide the card into my coat like it's not made of my entire future.

I step back inside the locker room, and Baxter's speaker is rattling the stalls with music so loud I can't hear myself think.

Someone has already shaken a beer over Coach Dave, and Nate is being chased between the benches by Baxter, who is snapping a towel at his bare ass with sniper-like accuracy.

"SHARE THE CREDIT!" Baxter yells. Snap.

"I SCORED IT ALONE!" Snap. "OW! WITH MY TALENT!"

"The screen deserves the assist," Aidan says calmly from his stall, a beer in hand. "I created that goal by standing still."

"You're literally a human building, Aidan," Nate pants, using me as a human shield as Baxter nearly snaps the towel right on my cock. "Buildings don't get assists."

I manage to shove Nate off me just as Dylan appears in the doorway, guitar case and all, despite still not being on the roster.

"I'd like to acknowledge my contribution to helping you assholes beat the best team in this entire tournament," he says. "My emotional support from beside the penalty box changed the energy of that third period. You all felt it."