The red light flashed.
“Fuck yes!” I crashed into Cole, and he wrapped his arms around me, laughing into my shoulder.
“That’s three!” he shouted over the noise.
“Hat trick, baby!” I shoved his helmet. “Fuck yes!”
Hats rained down on the ice as we skated back to the bench. Alek waited, professional mask firmly in place, but his hand lingered on my shoulder when I sat down.
“Good shift,” he said quietly. “Do it exactly like that in the playoffs.”
We were locked in, fighting for seeding now. This late in March, every game mattered.
I caught movement in the stands—Jordon Mitchell, the rookie we’d called up from the AHL last month. The kid was talented—eighteen years old, drafted straight out of high school, sitting with the staff because he wasn’t ready to play yet. But he would be.
Jordon reminded me of myself at eighteen—scared, out of his depth, the only Black player on a team that wanted to be inclusive but didn’t quite know how.
I’d taken him under my wing like Dr. Parker had taken me under hers.
The final buzzer sounded. We won 4-2, and the arena went fucking crazy.
I found Alek first in the celebration, our eyes meeting across the ice. He nodded once. We’d built this together, from the fucked-up mess we’d left in Yorkfield to this. He’d built this team from nothing, and I was fucking honored to be part of that.
Eva stood in the stands, her smile taking up her whole face, stunning even when she was exhausted from her residency. Delaney sat beside her, cheering and grinning. Those two had become unlikely friends when she’d sought shelter from her father with the bratva after Cole blew up their fake engagement. Or real engagement but fake relationship. Whatever it was.
Cole appeared at my side, sweaty and grinning. “Ready to head home?”
“Yeah.” I glanced back at Alek, who was already talking to the head coach, debriefing the game. He’d be another hour at least. “Text him and tell him we’re bringing dinner.”
Cole’s grin widened. “Thai or Italian?”
“Whatever Eva wants.”
“Lebanese, then.”
I laughed. “Every fucking time.”
Eva’s carwas already parked on the street when we pulled up to the brownstone. She’d beaten us home—barely.
Cole grabbed the takeout bags while I unlocked the door. We found Eva at the kitchen table, surrounded by textbooks and notes, wearing my old Yorkfield hoodie and a pair of shorts so fucking short, they should have been criminal. Her Mass General ID badge lay on the table, spilling out of her backpack. She’d pulled her red hair into a messy knot, and she had that glazed look that meant she’d been staring at the same page for twenty minutes without absorbing anything.
She looked up when we walked in, and her whole face transformed with affection. “Hey.”
“Hay is for horses,” Cole teased as he set the bags on the counter. “You eat yet?”
“I had a granola bar.”
“That’s not food.” He started unpacking containers. “Brought home takeout.”
“I love you,” she said, and fuck, even after five years, hearing her say it so easily still did things to me.
I nuzzled her hair, inhaling her clean creamsicle scent, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “How was your shift?”
“Long.” She leaned into me. “Lost a patient, a seventy-two-year-old woman, to a stroke, but I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I’m here if you change your mind, kitten.” I squeezed her shoulder. We’d learned, over five years and a lot oftherapy, when to push and when to just be there for each other.
Cole was already making her a plate. He knew exactly how she liked to start the meal—labneh, lots of fresh pita, and a pile of vegetables practically falling off her plate.