32. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

Leo

The roar of the TD Garden crowd is deafening as I step onto the ice for the third period. The scoreboard glares 2-2, the tension thick enough to skate on. This is it.

Game five.

If we win tonight, we move on to the next round, taking this series four games to one. And fuck, do we need this. We need to feel like the universe isn't actively trying to kick our asses for once.

I take a deep breath, the cold air filling my lungs as I face my teammates. "We've got this. Play our game, stay focused. Let's show the Bruins what we're made of."

The guys nod, then skate to our positions. I lock eyes with the Bruins' center across from me. He's got that look—the one that says he'd rather die than lose this game. Well, buddy, get in line.

The ref glides into position, puck in hand. For a moment, everything seems to freeze. Then the puck drops, and the world explodes into motion.

I win the face-off, muscle memory taking over as I send the puck back to Hudson. He doesn't hesitate, passing it to Mykyta, who carries it into the offensive zone. He takes a shot that makes the crowd gasp, but the Bruins' goalie gets a piece of it. The puck rebounds, but Petrov's there in a flash, keeping us in control.

He passes to me, but a Bruins’ defenseman gets his stick in the way, deflecting it. “Fuck!”

And just like that, we're on defense.

“Watch the left!” I call out as one of their wingers streaks down the boards. Petrov shifts, cutting off the lane, while Hudson sticks with the player barreling toward the net. But Ian’s slow to turn and the Bruins’ player gets past him, taking a shot.

Smitty keeps the puck out of the net with a glove save the whistle is blown, giving us an opportunity to change lines.

I shake my head. “Fucking dammit.”

“We’ll get it back.” Petrov nudges me with his shoulder.

Dropping down onto the bench, I grab a water bottle, squirting some Gatorade into my mouth as Wyatt and Roan head onto the ice. “Come on, Virgin. Get us a goal.”

He winks at me. “You know I will.”

But ten seconds later, Garrison is sent to the box for tripping. Great. Just great.

The penalty kill is like being stuck in the world's most stressful time loop. Seconds stretch into hours as Smitty continues to keep us in the game, stopping three point-blank shots in rapid succession. It's the kind of performance that makes you want to build the guy a shrine.

“We owe him dinner for a month after that.” Mykyta laughs as Garrison finally skates out of the box.

“A month? Try a year.”

With eight minutes left in the game and the score still frustratingly tied, Coach Kinnear decides it's time to shake things up. "Hartman, Clanton, Morrow—you're up!"

“Time to stick it to these assholes.”

Wyatt and I snap our heads sideways, staring at Roan. Wyatt chuckles, twirling his stick. “Damn, Morrow.”

Roan goes wide-eyed and blinks.

“What? Didn’t mean to say it out loud?”

He turns red, and Wyatt and I laugh. Then I jut my chin toward the opposing team. “Morrow’s right. Let’s end this now.”

Wyatt wins the face-off and sends it over to Morrow. Roan skates toward the net like he's planning to go straight through it. He passes back to Lund at the last second, faking out half the Bruins' defense in the process.

Garrison fires off a slap shot. The Bruins' goalie barely gets a piece of it, but it's enough to send the puck ricocheting out. And there I am, in the right place at the right time. The second the puck hits my blade, I tap it in with a little lift, right over the goalie’s pad.

Goal.

“Fuck, yeah, Sparkles!” Wyatt crashes into me, planting a kiss my helmet.

“Just keep the pressure on. We’re only up by one.”

We hop off the ice as the next line goes out. Mykyta scores, putting us up by two.

The final minutes are some of the most intense hockey I've ever played. The Bruins, facing elimination, throw everything they have at us. They pull their goalie, giving them an extra attacker. But we hold strong.

Hudson and Lund are brick walls on defense, blocking shots and clearing the zone with a determination that borders on psychotic. Petrov takes a puck to the face that leaves him bleeding but grinning like a maniac. "Is good? Chicks dig scars, yes?"

I shove him toward the bench. “Go let the trainer fix it and stop worrying what women think. The series isn’t over yet.”

The game continues and Smitty’s giving everything he’s got. During one frantic scramble, he loses his stick but still manages to make a glove save that has the entire arena gasping in disbelief. That’s definitely making the ESPN highlight reel.

With thirty seconds left on the clock, the Bruins make one last, desperate rush up the ice. Their star forward, a guy who's given us nightmares all series, winds up for a slap shot from the point. Without thinking, I dive to block it.

There's a special kind of pain that comes from taking a frozen rubber disc to the shin at about a 105 miles an hour. It's the kind of pain that makes you question every life choice that led you to this moment. But as the puck slams into my leg, all I can think is, 'Better me than the net.'

Somehow, through either adrenaline or sheer stubbornness, I manage to chip the puck out of the zone from my knees. And then, finally, mercifully, the horn sounds.

The bench clears as my teammates and coaches pour onto the ice, tackling Smitty, then each other. While I might’ve been on a team that won the first round before, it just feels different with the Minotaurs. Maybe because we’re underdogs being a new team, one no one really expected to be here.

Or maybe it's because of all the shit we've been through to get to this point.

But as I look at my teammates—at Wyatt's shit-eating grin, at Mykyta with his arms up in the air, at Smitty's look of stunned disbelief—I know I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Like all the twists and turns and fucked-up detours my life has taken have led me right here, to this moment, with these guys.

We eventually disentangle ourselves and line up for handshakes. When we’re done I glance over at the fourth row off to the right side of our net where a sea of people sit in Minotaurs’ jerseys—all bearing my name and number.

Mason and Stella are jumping up and down, waving their arms like they're trying to guide in a plane. My parents are there too, my dad giving me the thumbs up as my mom claps properly as if she’s at the Academy Awards instead of a hockey game.

And there's my brother, who flew in from London for this. He's sitting as far from our mother as physically possible while still being in the same row, but the important thing is he's here.

And right in the middle is Cat, her face split in a grin so wide it looks painful. She's wearing my jersey too, and something about seeing her in it makes my chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the game we just played.

Wyatt sidles up to me, draping an arm over my shoulders. "Damn, Sparkles. You’ve got the biggest cheering squad I've ever seen. Your girlfriend really went all out with the jerseys, huh?"

Girlfriend.

I smile because I don’t think I ever want to stop hearing Cat referred to that way.

I snort as I wave to my family. "Yeah, well, Cat and Winston wanted to stir the pot with my mother."

Wyatt raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "What? My fiancée didn’t tell me any of this, so spill it."

"My mother wanted Cat and Stella to wear custom jackets she had ordered. Then made some snooty comment about jersey material being beneath them or some bullshit. So, my girlfriend came up with this plan for everyone to wear regular jerseys with my name and number. When I told Winston about it—because Mom wouldn't stop complaining—he loved the idea. Said it was delightfully plebeian or some shit."

Wyatt claps me on the back, grinning. "Shit, Sparkles. Look at you all smitten. Better watch out before we become extended family.”

My heart thuds hard, but in a good way. Even so, I want to take things slow. “Don’t go giving the girls any ideas, Virgin.”

“Keep calling me that and I may start dropping hints about a double wedding. I’m sure Nora and Cat would love it.”

We may have just won an important game, but right this second, I'm seriously contemplating if I could get away with murdering my best friend.

As we make our way off the ice and toward the locker room, the reality of what we've just accomplished starts to sink in. We've won the round and we're moving on to the next. For a brand-new team that most people wrote off at the start of the season, this is huge.

It’s also just the beginning. We’ve got more games to win, but right now with my team at my back and my family by my side, I feel something I haven't felt in a long time.

I feel invincible.