44. Aaron

44

AARON

Sixty minutes of gameplay, and it’s all come down to the last sixty seconds.

We’re tied 1-1, but the game’s been frustrating from the moment the puck dropped. We’re outplaying and outshooting the Houston Dragons—one of the worst ranked teams in the league right now—but their behemoth goalie has evaded us from actually outscoring them tonight.

Which is the metric that actually matters, at the end of the day.

It’s our first game back after Christmas, we’re on home ice playing for a packed arena, and the woman of my dreams is in the crowd, cheering for me.

I want to win, dammit.

Before the game, I managed to avoid the press. I didn’t want them bringing up Olivia and that photo that seems to be everywhere. I figured I’d get out here on the ice, play a hell of a game, and give them something else to talk about.

Make my team, my coach, and her proud.

We might have less than a minute left, but I’m not giving up yet.

The guys on the second line skate towards the boards and I stand, ready to jump back on the ice for my last shift.

Colton, Seb, and I skate into position. Then, time simultaneously speeds up, and slows right down.

Dallas steals the puck from one of Houston’s D-men and snaps it forward to Seb, who skates furiously ahead. He’s fast, fast enough to outskate the Houston guy flanking him, and I hold my breath for a moment—can feel the entire arena hold its breath—as he swings back his stick and takes the shot.

It soars through the air at lightning speed, a beautiful shot, but it misses its target by mere inches, soaring past the net.

The crowd lets out a collective groan, but I barely hear it. Instead, I’m tearing down the ice, stick outstretched, to claim the puck. I get there first, hook it with my stick, and maneuver around another Houston player, my skates biting the ice as I turn.

I’m behind the net, the Dragons’ goalie only a couple of feet away, and adrenaline pumps through my body as I shift my weight, sizing my options.

I can pass it to Jake, who’s wide open. Or, I can pass to Perez, who’s right by the net on the goalie’s weak side, and he’ll have a chance to sneak it in if we catch the goalie off guard.

It takes me a split second to determine that Perez currently has a better chance of scoring, so I neatly send it Colton’s way. He makes contact, and does exactly what I hoped he would do: attempts to edge it in behind the goalie’s right skate.

He’s unsuccessful, and the goalie intercepts the puck and sends it flying down the ice, where it hits a Houston forward’s stick. He skates fast and hard, propelling his body forward effortlessly, dekes out both Dallas and Jake, and then, the moment he has a clear shot on net, lines up and lets it fly.

The puck streaks towards the net, and time stands still as Lars launches himself into a dive.

I can only watch as the puck grazes the edge of his glove… and lands smack in the back of the net, just as the clock runs out.

The Houston guys throw their gloves up in victory, and the entire RGM lets out a groan that I feel in my bones.

Final score: Houston—2, Atlanta—1.

We lose.

It’s our first game back after Christmas. We’re on home ice playing for a packed arena. The woman of my dreams is in the crowd…

And we lose.

Immediately, my mind goes straight to familiar anxious thoughts: You screwed up and made the wrong decision, Aaron. You just lost your team the game.

I try to shake off the thoughts as we file off the ice, lifting my head to see if I can spot a familiar copper-haired figure.

When I locate her, everything else stills. Calms.

She holds up her hands in the shape of a heart.

I believe in you, Aaron.

Her words brush over my skin and I feel them sinking in. Hitting their mark.

My eyes remain on Olivia’s as I hold up my own gloved hands and make a heart in return. The girl with fire in her eyes that fuels my own fire. The girl I once desired, who grew into the only woman I have ever truly wanted. The reason I understand the feeling of being so far gone for someone that there’s no hope nor want of return.

I love Olivia. I don’t know if it’s chemistry or astrology or damn alchemy that dictates that, and frankly, I don’t care. I just know it’s right .

So much so that I don’t give a damn what anyone else thinks, or what they might say about me reacting to losing a game we should have won by looking at her and doing this.

I care what she thinks. I care about her.

Us .

The voice in my mind that always tells me to do better and reminds me of all my shortcomings can take a damn backseat, because Olivia belongs at the forefront.

Back in the locker room, morale is low like it always is after a loss. But instead of doing what I might have done in the past and apologizing for what I believed was my mistake, I act like the damn captain they appointed me to be.

“Good game, Ferrar,” I tell one of our rookies who’s unlacing his skates. “That shot on net in the second was a thing of pure beauty.”

He beams. “You think?”

“Absolutely.”

I then move on to congratulate Seb on his goal at the end of the first, and Lars for an incredible save at the start of the third. I sit with Colton and assure him that what happened wasn’t his fault—nor mine, nor anyone’s. The other team getting that breakaway was simply a lucky fluke, and it was an admittedly gorgeous shot that won Houston the game.

“We played well tonight,” I address the room. “And next game, we’ll play better. We got this. One loss does not define who we are.”

The guys cheer in agreement and I’m happy to see the mood improve. I flop down on the bench and am surprised when Jake comes to sit beside me.

“Nice speech,” he says with a chuckle.

“Thanks. Want a pep talk, too?” I joke.

“Nah. Olivia already gave me the talk of a lifetime earlier.”

My brows shoot up. “She did?”

He nods. “Full-blown stalked me in the parking garage, then verbally chewed me up and spit me out.”

I break into laughter. “Classic Liv.”

“You’re gonna have your hands full with her,” Jake says with what looks to be a genuine smile.

“I know. I can’t wait.” I grin back, and just like that, everything is good between us again. I know that, with time, Jake will come to see that not only is Olivia the best thing that’s ever happened to me, but that I can be good for her, too. I vow to do everything in my power to be.

“Marino!” Coach Torres’s booming voice calls through the room.

“Yes, Coach?”

“A minute.”

I promptly get to my feet and follow him to his office. I wonder what he has to say, and usually I’d be anxious as all hell about the fact that he wants to talk to me right after a loss. But I hold my head up and stand firm on my new truth.

“What’s up?” I ask as I sink into a chair opposite him.

“I saw you boosting the guys’ moods back there. I wanted to tell you that you’re doing a good job.”

“Thank you,” I say, surprised. Not what I’d been expecting him to say at all.

“You’re a good captain, Marino,” Coach tells me. “You’ve only been in this role for a few months, and already, the guys respect you. Want to hear what you’ve got to say.”

“Glad you think so.”

“I do.” Coach’s piercing eyes bore into me as he steeples his hands on his desk. He clears his throat. “But I also wanted to give you a heads up that the press have swooped in like vultures on the news of you getting together with Griswold’s sister.”

My heart sinks. This isn’t surprising to me. That damn picture is everywhere.

“I figured they might,” I say slowly. I’m already thinking about how I can best protect Olivia from what will surely be an onslaught of questions and assumptions.

“They’re asking more questions about your role here. Lieberman is not one bit happy, and I have a feeling that he’s going to amp up his campaign to get you replaced. Whatever happens, I want to let you know that I’m on your side. I believe in you.”

I appreciate Torres’s words immensely, and that he’s in my corner, but I can read between the lines: if Lieberman really pushes back, Coach’s hands might be tied.

“I do, too, Coach,” I say with conviction. “And for as long as the Cyclones organization lets me, I’m going to continue to be the best damn captain I can be.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Marino,” Torres says with a nod. “I suggest you go find your girl and enjoy the rest of your night. I’ll handle the media storm that’s brewing out there.”

And that’s when I know exactly what I need to do.

“Actually, Coach,” I say. “Can I join in on the press conference?”

His bushy brows fly up. “You want to speak to the media tonight?”

“I do.”

No more imposter syndrome. Lieberman can skewer me all he wants after this, but for now, I’m still this team’s damn captain.

And I have something to say.