CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

L uke

God, I wish I wasn’t on the ice. Sebastian and the women are arriving back from Ashcove now.

I want to run to Back Bay, yank him from whatever interview the schedule says he is doing now, and tell him I lo—

I blink.

Where did that thought come from?

The announcer blares and Dmitri lines up beside me. “You okay?”

Maybe my jaw drops.

“I can display—what do you call it—sympathy too,” he says.

“I know.”

Thoughts of Sebastian fill my mind.

“Who is it? Willow or Flora?”

“What?”

“You’re in love with one of them.”

I stare.

“I can tell a man in love,” Dmitri explains. “I am Russian. We are romantic people.”

I snort. “I’ve only ever seen you have hookups.”

“My Romantic Era has not happened yet,” Dmitri says. “It will be strong. Powerful. Russian. Now, I enjoy hookups.”

I roll my eyes, but my lips totally twitch.

But perhaps he’s right. Am I in love?

Actual love? The kind I watch in movies? The kind that is supposed to last a lifetime? The goal of every Seeking Mr. Right season?

But I am in love.

With a man.

I wait for the flicker of distaste, but nothing about Sebastian could possibly be distasteful. I don’t care what Bryce thinks. No way.

God, I’m in love. Happiness sweeps through me, then I remember everything I shouldn’t.

I’m in love with a man whose life I’ve ruined. I tighten my grip on my stick and get into position for the puck drop.

Fuck. I do not want to play now.

The Montrealian center leans toward me, his lips drawn into a smirk, the sneering shape more emphasized by his spindly mustache. “Missing your flowers? Ready to go to sleep again?”

I hate that we’re playing Montreal again. I hate it. I hate that the last time I played them I had to be assisted off the ice.

But I’m not going to let them win. They might be rough, desperate to regain their reputation, but I will be rougher. I have lost too much. I will not lose this.

The puck drops, and I shove my shoulder into Montreal as I slam the puck back to Noah.

Montreal’s eyes go comically wide, and I skate toward Noah.

A whistle screeches. The ref glowers over his black-and-white striped shirt. “Face-off violation.”

Fuck.

I’ve never been called on that before. Coach’s always calm Swedish expression is less calm. My teammates look confused because that isn’t a mistake I do.

I look away. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.

We reset, and the puck drops again. This time I lose the second face-off. Probably something to do with focus, and I hear Montreal laughing and murmuring something more about flowers.

I inhale. I’ve given up too much for this game. All my life, I’ve just focused on hockey. I didn’t pay enough attention to what my brother was doing. Maybe I rarely tried to stop Bryce was because all the things he said about Sebastian were things that he could have said about me, and I didn’t want Bryce’s sneers and accusations and slurs to be directed toward me.

I wasn’t brave.

I buried myself in hockey.

And I’m not going to fucking lose a game now. I’m going to win. Whatever it takes. I center myself, and steel enters my veins.

Their forward tries to skate past me but I slam him into the boards, the noise way more satisfying than it should be.

The whistle blows again. Two minutes for interference.

I head for the penalty box, ignoring the confused looks of Dmitri and Noah.

I never go to the penalty box. That’s not my style. Axel and Dmitri do, sure...But not me.

But it makes sense I’m here now. I ruined everything for Sebastian. I deserve to be in the penalty box. I deserve everyone to know just how badly I fucked-up.

My legs bounce and I peer at the ice through the thick plastic glass, watching my teammates skate, a blur of blue and white. I should be with them.

Back on the ice, I intercept a pass meant for Montreal. I skate toward the net, ignoring Dmitri who is ready for my pass. I prefer to barrel though the Montreal defensemen. One of them tries to knock me down, but I muscle past him, ignoring the powder snow spraying around us.

The goalie drops, and I move at once. I fire the puck high above his glove, putting everything into the shot. It hits the back of the goal with a satisfying stretch.

The crowd cheers and claps, but the sound doesn’t remove the ache in my chest.

“Good job,” Dmitri says, but his look is bemused. He’s used to me working with him. I get the assist, he gets the goal and the glory, just how he likes it.

I’m pretty sure I’m still glowering as I skate back to the bench with the rest of my line. My teammates reach out their hands to cheer me, but their eyes seem equally bewildered.

The intermission doesn’t calm me. Anger bubbles through me. I want to be on the ice, to feel my blades slice through the Zambonied surface.

Finally, we’re back. Montreal’s center threads a pass through Noah’s legs to their wing. I leave my position to chase him. God, I hate his mustache.

I catch the guy, slamming him into the boards. The puck wiggles free. I snag it with my streak, then down the ice on a breakaway. Their defensemen can’t catch me. I fake right, go left, and roof the puck over the goalie’s shoulder.

Two-nothing Blizzards.

That’s when it happens. Play resumes, and I see Noah reaching for a loose puck along the boards. Montreal’s biggest defenseman lines him up, drives his shoulder right into back. Noah goes face-first into the glass.

The whistle blows but I’m already dropping my gloves, throwing my stick aside. The defenseman turns just as my first punch connects with his jaw. We’re grabbing each other’s jerseys, trading blows.

“Luke!” Noah shouts. “He’s not worth it.”

I don’t listen. The linesmen jump in to separate us.

“Five minutes each for fighting,” the ref announces.

I frown. He’s talking way more to me today than I appreciate. Normally, refs are silent puck droppers, skating out of my way. I don’t like all this conversation.

I sit in the penalty box and wipe blood from my lip.

My gaze darts around the arena.

My disappointed coach.

My confused teammates.

The interested press.

Then I see him. Sebastian. In the press box. Our eyes meet across the arena and everything stops—the throbbing in my lip, the roar of the crowd, even my heartbeat.

God, he is here.

He shoots me a wobbly smile, and I love it. I love him.

He cares. Even though my brother was horrible, even though I surely must have damaged his job...He cares. He is here to see me.

Perhaps there can be a future between us.

Perhaps.

My time in the box ends. I skate back to our bench different. Changed. Steady.

“You good?” Coach asks.

I nod. For the first time since Ashcove, I am.

Montreal ties it up early in the third. But I’m not worried. Not now.

My next shift, I win the face-off cleanly, no shoving needed. I find Dmitri with a backhand pass through traffic. He one-times it but the goalie makes the save.

The minutes tick down. Every stoppage in play, I search the press section. Sebastian’s still there. I feel settled. Resolved.

Troy makes a huge save in our end. Noah corrals the rebound, fires it up to me at center ice. I catch the pass in stride, Montreal’s defenders backing off, scared of my speed.

I cut across the blue line, drawing both defenders to me. At the last second, I drop it back to Noah trailing the play. He sends it right back, a perfect give-and-go. I’m alone in front.

The puck hits my stick. Time slows. I can feel Sebastian watching.

Top corner. The goal horn blares. Hats rain down onto the ice.

My first hat trick.

The team mobs me, but I’m searching the press section.

Sebastian grins at me.