“McKnight,” he says, tone unreadable. “You locked in?”
“Yes, sir.”
His eyes flick between me and my grinning teammates. I wonder if he knows I have a thing for Monroe. If he does, he doesn’t call me out on it right now, which is great. I have a game to win. Playoffs to qualify for. A team to lead.
A girl to impress. If she shows.
I push all of that to the back of my mind and return the nod he gives me. “Good. Win this game, boys.”
I shove my phone into my locker, ignoring several more missed calls from my dad. He’s becoming impossible to ignore these days. The requests formoney were becoming incessant, and I still hadn’t told anyone else that he was back and bothering me again. Kelsey was finally getting me back into the good graces of the league media, the press was leaving me alone again, we were winning. I had Monroe.
Answering his call would ruin all of that, and I just didn’t have the bandwidth for it. I wasn’t sure Coach would either.
I shake my head, getting into my game zone. I’d think about all of this later.
Then we’re on the move, headed for the tunnel.
The arena is electric. It’s home ice and a full house, and the energy is crackling like static before a storm. This is where Ithrive. I knew the first time I stepped onto the ice as a kid that this was it. I’d do anything to stay here.
I take my spot at center ice for the face-off. The ref whistles and the arena goes quiet, save for the puck that drops like a rock onto the ice.
And it’s game on.
We push hard out of the gate, aggressive on the forecheck, cycling through the zone with precision. I know it’s a good game. I can feel it with every pass. We’re working hard together, making the right calls. Weston isn’t letting anything past him. JD and Tyler hold the blue line while Finn and Callum dig in the corners. The visiting team’s goalie makes two quick saves, but we control possession. Because of course we do. We’re the damn Wolverines.
Seven minutes in, we get a power play.
I plant myself in the slot, stick on the ice, eyes locked on the puck. Beck handles the point, feeding Jax along the boards. Jax threads a pass through the other team, right to my stick.
I fire the puck toward the goal and wait for what seems like an eternity. The goalie lunges toward it—and misses.
The arena erupts for the first goal of the game.
I skate to the glass, fists raised. Callum tackles me into the boards.
One-zero, Wolverines.
By the third period, the score is tied two-two. I am desperate to break the tie and sink this win. I keep looking in the stands for Monroe, but I don’t see her. I push the disappointment down in my chest and focus on the game. I hope I’m just missing her.
I’m exhausted, my lungs burning, my legs screaming, but I refuse to lose this game. Beck shoots me the puck and I take off, weaving through the sea of players.
I wait—wait for the gap, wait for the perfect second. If I’m patient, a slot always opens up. I wait one more moment.
Then I rip it.
Goal.
The crowd explodes and I get mobbed by my teammates, helmet smacks and gloves pounding my back. The only way it would have been better is if Monroe had been here to see it.
I let that fade to the back of my mind, though, because we just won and I can’t let my guys down. I skate to center ice, stick raised to the fans, adrenaline still buzzing under my skin. The cheers from the crowd feel absolutely electric. I’m buzzing with the high of the win.
Then—I swear I can feel her before I see her.
Monroe.
She’s in the first row near the tunnel, arms crossed, the tiniest smirk on her face like she’s trying not to smile. It’s cute because she’s failing miserably. Iwonder when the hell she got to the game, because I’ve been scouring the stands whenever I had a free moment. I decide I don’t care because she’s here now.
I rake my eyes down her body—oversized Wolverines jersey, black leggings—but my brain short-circuits becauseis it my jersey?