Chapter 18

Foster

In the visiting team’s locker room in Atlanta, the air is thick with the scent of determination and sweat. It’s a stark contrast to our home locker room in Pittsburgh. The walls here are painted the deep red and black of the Sting, with their logo dominating one side. It’s less familiar, less comforting, but it has the same energy—a space dedicated to preparation and focus. My teammates are in their own zones, some taping their sticks with practiced precision, others suited up and stretching, their muscles flexing and relaxing in a rhythm of anticipation.

As I pull on my jersey, my mind can’t help but drift back to the conversation with Mazzy last night. I asked her out, and she said she’d think about it. Those words keep replaying in my head. She’d acted like nothing had changed after that, moving back to making dinner, but everything had changed. The simple act of asking her out shifted something fundamental between us.

If she says yes, we could be starting something that goes beyond employer and employee—something potentially real and lasting. I like her too much to think it could go any other way.

Now, miles away in Atlanta, I’m trying to get my game face on. The buzz of the upcoming battle usually sharpens my focus, but tonight my thoughts are a little scattered.

Before I put my phone away, I need to do one thing. I send a text to Mazzy.

How is Bowie Jane this evening?I type, trying to sound casual.

Her reply is fast. She’s finishing up her bath right now. Homework all done and we’ve got plans to meet on the couch to watch you play on TV.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I like the thought of them watching me play.

With a few quick taps, I send another message. I know you said you’d have an answer when I get back from the road trip, but I’m curious if you have any leanings.

I watch the three pulsing dots, indicating she’s responding, and I can’t help but feel impatient, a sense of urgency gripping me.

I would say there’s a 60/40 chance right now.

60 percent you’ll go out with me?I reply, my heart racing a bit.

Maybe, is all she says.

What a brat, but it makes me laugh. You’re killing me here. And you know that’s not good for my game.

This will in no way affect my game. When I’m on the ice, I’m all in—nothing else matters. But right now, off the ice, this matters a lot.

Those dots tease me with anticipation of what she’ll say. When it comes, it’s more than I had hoped for. Fine. I don’t want to ruin your game. I’ll go out with you.

Yes!!!!I text back, then punch the air slightly. I’ll figure out plans. Got to go.

A wave of relief and excitement washes over me, even as I stash my phone. It’s time to focus on the game now, to channel this energy into every stride, every shot.

As I head toward the ice for warm-ups, a new kind of determination sets in. Tonight, I’m playing not just for my team, but for something more—a future that suddenly seems filled with incredible possibilities. Mazzy said yes. That’s all the motivation I need.

?

The game againstthe Atlanta Sting is intense, the ice a symphony of speed and skill. I’m centering the second line with Atlas on my left and North on my right. Camden and Hendrix hold the line as our defensemen, solid as rocks. My legs burn with exertion, but it’s a good burn, the kind that tells me I’m right where I need to be.

We’re in the third period, the score tied. The energy in the arena is electric, every move, every shot by the Sting met with roars from their home crowd. The Titans, however, have a good traveling fan base. Ever since the plane went down, we’ve gained fans who’d never been interested in hockey before. It’s like we’ve become America’s team, and there’s a good showing of purple and gray jerseys in the stands. But the cheers of the few Titans fans here can’t compete with the Sting’s. I itch to score, end this game, and force the crowd to go silent.

We’re nearing the end of our line’s shift with just a little more than three minutes left in the game. I’m skating hard, my breath clouding in the cold arena air. North passes the puck to Atlas, who’s darting down the left side. I see my opening and position myself, slapping my stick on the ground to call for the puck.

He flicks it across the ice with precision. I catch it on the curved blade, feeling the familiar weight and power of the biscuit. My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins.

I glance up, eyes scanning the play. The Sting’s defense is tight, but there’s a gap. I dart toward it, the puck like an extension of my body. Camden and Hendrix create a diversion, pulling the defenders away. I see my chance.

With a burst of speed, I weave through the defense until it’s just me and the goalie. He’s good, I know that, but so am I. I fake left, see him bite, and then pull back to my right. My body moves on instinct, years of training and games distilled into this single moment.

I unleash a quick backhanded shot, the puck flying off my stick. Time seems to slow as it hurtles toward the goal. The goalie lunges, but he’s a fraction of a second too late. The puck slams into the back of the net, the sound echoing through the arena like a cannon blast.

For a moment, everything is still. Then the realization hits the fans we have here—goal. The roar of that small group is actually deafening in the quiet space left behind by speechless Sting fans, a wave of sound that washes over me. My teammates are on me in an instant, a flurry of pats and shouts.

I raise my arms in triumph, skating back toward our side of the rink. The exhilaration is overwhelming, a rush like no other. Scoring a goal is always a thrill, but this one feels different. This one feels like it’s for Mazzy, for Bowie Jane, for the future I’m starting to see unfold.

As I glide over the ice, my heart still racing, I know I won’t forget this moment. Not just for the goal, but for everything it represents. In this game, on this night, everything feels possible.

The game isn’t over yet and we have to hold off the Sting for another few minutes. It’s time to tighten up defensively and help Drake protect our goal. When there are two minutes left, the Sting pull their goalie. We watch as he races to the bench and his replacement hops the boards so they go up by one offensive player on the ice.

The extra man lets them spread out, passing along the outside of the zone, looking for a break in the middle. They make a long slap shot attempt that Hendrix gets a stick on and deflects outward, but it lands right before a Sting player and they have possession again.

A few more passes trying to set up a play, but we are cutting off every avenue. One of their players weaves through the middle and they attempt to thread it through to him, but once again, Hendrix is on it. He intercepts, flicks his wrist to launch the puck past the Sting center and out of the zone. Two Sting players race for it and it just goes wide of the empty net. It gives our line time to get off the ice and the third line to come on to continue defending.

From the bench I watch the clock ticking down, my gaze flicking back and forth between the timer overhead and the action on the ice. With forty-two seconds left and the Sting still a man up, Van manages to tie up their left-winger on the boards. The puck squirts free and lands right on Van’s stick and he does a quick snap with his wrist. The puck glides down the ice, far too fast for a Sting player to catch it, and lands in the empty net.

Our bench erupts, the Sting fans go silent, and the roar of our small niche of fans seems almost deafening. As the third line jams into a congratulatory huddle, I give a light punch to North’s arm to my left. “Great game.”

“Back at you,” he replies with a grin.

While it’s still theoretically possible for the Sting to score two goals to tie it up again, the chances are slim. We’ll still fight as if we’re down a goal but I’m going to go ahead and mark this game as a win.

The Sting put their goalie back in for the next face-off, although he’ll most likely make a quick dash for the bench as soon as they can get the puck in our zone. But I do the unheard of and let myself disassociate from the game.

I think about Mazzy and where I should take her for a date. Given the time I was with Sandra, both dating and marriage, plus the two years since our divorce, I haven’t dated since high school. I know I’ve got the concept figured out and I can afford more than a meal at Applebee’s, but I want this to be more special than the dates she’s been on.

That does make me wonder what her experience has been. Mazzy is twenty-seven, making her a year younger than me. I have no clue what her dating history has been. I don’t know if she’s only had casual relationships, or hell… I don’t even know if she’s been married before.

How do I not know that?

Despite having an intense attraction to her, coupled with my admiration for the type of person she is, there’s still quite a bit to learn.

That means we need to go out to a nice meal, somewhere quiet where we can linger and talk. A higher-end restaurant… a place I can call ahead and secure the best table, but not to impress her. I’d just like the most secluded.

Definitely no movie, as that would be a waste of time to spend together and I’m definitely going for a kiss at the end of the night because I know she won’t turn away. Not if we have the same vibing energy we had the day of the almost-kiss.

The shrieking horn signals the end of the game, and I’m yanked out of my daydream with a flush of guilt that I disconnected so thoroughly. I scrub all thoughts of dates, Mazzy and kissing so I can hop over the boards and join my teammates on the ice to celebrate our win.