Even from that distance, I felt the awareness of her like a hand at the base of my neck.
I hated that.
Hated how easily my body had started picking her out of a room. Hated that my mind was learning her in fragments—posture, movement, the clean scent of her clothes, the way she held herself with a gentle stoicism even when she was breaking down inside. Hated that I’d started noticing when she was tired. When she was irritated. When she was holding herself too still because someone nearby had said something she couldn’t professionally tell them to choke on.
The final horn hit like a gunshot, crackling through the arena and then completely erupted—fifteen thousand people on their feet, the sound ripping loose and rolling down over the ice in a wave that felt earned instead of desperate.
Four-one.
No collapse. No late-game panic. No scramble to survive something we’d already lost control of.
We’d handled it.
The guys didn’t wait.
Gloves hit the ice. Sticks slammed the boards. Bodies collided in that chaotic, unfiltered way that only came when something had been building for weeks and finally had somewhere to go.
Zee launched himself straight into Liam, nearly taking them both down in the process. “Let’s fucking go!” he shouted, voice cracking through the noise, adrenaline making him louder than he knew what to do with.
Ty skated backward, arms thrown wide like he’d personally orchestrated the entire night. “You’re welcome, gentlemen,” he called out, already insufferable. “That rush? That was art.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Marco shot back, laughing anyway as he pulled Boris into a rough half-hug.
I pushed off the ice slower than the rest of them, letting the moment burn out around me instead of stepping into it. My lungs dragged in air that tasted like cold and sweat and the sharp metallic edge that always followed a clean win.
The crowd was still on their feet.
Still loud.
Still ours—for now.
I didn’t look up at them again.
The tunnel swallowed us fast, noise dropping from a roar to something more contained—echoing shouts, the scrape of blades on rubber, the slap of gloves against concrete walls.
And then the locker room door slammed open.
Music blasted from somewhere near the back bass thudding hard enough to rattle the metal stalls while half the room shouted over it anyway. Gear hit the floor in pieces. Shoulderpads dropped. Jerseys got yanked off and thrown wherever they landed.
It was chaos. Finally, the good kind. The kind that meant something had gone right.
“About damn time,” Liam muttered, ripping his tape free with his teeth before tossing it into the trash without looking.
“Best we’ve looked all season,” Jonah added, already halfway out of his gear, sweat still shining along his temples.
“Not even close,” Oliver cackled.
“Yeah, yeah, put it on a t-shirt,” Ty cut in, grabbing a water bottle and spraying it straight into the air before tipping it back over his own head. “Frosthawks finally remember how to play hockey.”
Laughter rippled through the room. Loose. Easy.
I stepped into my stall and started pulling my gloves off, fingers flexing once as the pressure released from my knuckles. The ache settled in deeper now that the adrenaline was fading, low and steady.
“Careful,” someone muttered from two stalls down, not loud enough to be for me—but not quiet enough to miss either. “Wouldn’t want to overdo it after a big day like today.”
A couple of guys snorted.
Another voice chimed in, sharper. “Yeah, gotta save something for the next courtroom appearance.”