My Blue Collars teammates have their shirts off with the letters of my name painted on their bellies.
Lucas and Logan are waving giant “O’Shannan Forever” signs, along with half of their team.
Miss Eunice and Miss Loretta are holding a homemade banner that says “Oh Captain, My Captain!”
Scottie and Clementine are blasting airhorns.
My mom is screaming. My dad is clapping. Fletch is chuckling and shaking his head, probably fighting a stab of envy, but he’s here, all the same.
But no one is louder or brighter than Kayla.
“THAT’S MY HUSBAND!” she yells. “Show ‘em what you’re made of, Cap!”
And they all cheer.
All of them.
For me.
I drop to one knee in the crease. Everything I’ve been holding together—pressure, fear, doubt—they all fracture like thin ice beneath a skate.
The pads I’ve kept guarding my heart fall to the ground, and I grin as Griggs and the others start their onslaught. Pucks fly at me like missiles, but I block every one, laughing behind my mask, light on my feet like it’s the first day of camp after a long summer.
Because she came.
They all came.
For me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
KAYLA
“This is a closed training camp,” a disapproving man says from the ice. “How did you get in here?”
Otto skates over to the side of the ice, stopping him.
“It’s okay,” Otto says. “I approved it.”
My heart unclenches a little. “Thanks, Mr. Hanninen,” I say with a wave and a grin that probably looks insane given my face paint.
“Dude, is that Coach’s wife?” one of the guys on the bench says to Hall (whom I recognize from his daily streams).
“Yeah. You can’t tell through the face paint, but she’s hot.”
“Oh, I can tell.”
Scottie and Clementine both laugh next to me. “You have 20-year-old men falling at your feet,” Scottie says. “Every woman’s dream.”
Clementine and I both laugh, because ew.
“GO CAP!” I yell at the top of my lungs.
Otto’s shoulders shake in a laugh, and then there’s a whistle, and the scrimmage starts.
Honestly, as much as I’ve tried to watch hockey over the last few months, I still don’t get it. What I do get is that Sean looks like a fire’s been lit under him. He moves with purpose—no wasted energy—but there’s a quiet flair to it. He’s like the James Bond of goalies. His movements are graceful, understated, and arresting.
The best part, though?
