Jonesy skated to Leo with a speed that had nothing to do with warm-ups. He bumped Leo’s shoulder with his glove, jerked his chin toward the glass, said something that made his whole face split into a grin.
Leo looked at Jonesy. Followed the direction of his chin. His eyes found the sign first, the block letters, and then they dropped to Dawson’s face.
The arena dropped away, and there was only Leo’s face. How it broke open. Not just happy, he looked relieved. The composure Leo had been wearing for weeks cracked down the center. His mouth opened and closed. His glove tightened on his stick. Hiseyes went bright and Dawson watched Leo Vargas, who always had something to say, stand on the ice with his mouth agape.
Leo skated toward him. Not fast. Deliberate. No wasted motion, a straight line from where he was to where he needed to be. He stopped at the glass. Close enough that the fog from his breath hit the surface and spread.
Dawson kept his hand where it was. Steady now. Fingers spread against the cold. Leo lifted his glove and pressed it against the glass where Dawson’s hand was.
Leo’s jaw was tight. His eyes were wet. He didn’t blink.
He nodded. Once. Small.
We’ll talk after.
Dawson nodded back. His vision blurred at the edges, and he blinked it clear, keeping his hand on the glass until Leo pulled away and skated back toward center ice. He hit the first puck he touched so hard it rang off the crossbar, and Dawson watched him circle back with his head up and something loose in his stride that hadn’t been there thirty seconds ago.
Jonesy glided past, slowed, looked at Dawson, looked at the sign, and pointed at it with his stick. He mouthed something to the bench that made Riggs throw his head back laughing.
Dawson sat back down. His legs were unsteady, his breath shallow. The sign rested on his lap, the block letters staring up at him, and somewhere on the ice, Leo was lining up for one last shot before the horn.
The horn sounded. Warm-ups were over. Dawson walked back up to his seat on wobbly legs and dropped into the seat next to Ethan.
Ethan handed him his beer, but didn’t say anything for a minute. Then, quiet enough that only Dawson could hear, “Looks like it worked. Congrats.”
Dawson took a long drink and set the cup between his feet next to the sign.
The puck dropped. Leo took his first shift, and Dawson didn’t know enough about hockey to judge the mechanics, but he knew Leo. Knew when he was going through the motions and when he was present. Tonight, Leo was focused, crashing into the play like he had somewhere to be.
“He’s flying,” Ethan said.
He was. And Dawson couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe right, couldn’t do anything except sit in row six and watch the man he loved play like the building was on fire and he wanted to be the last one out.
Ethan leaned over. “So, what happens after the game?”
Dawson didn’t have an answer. He’d been so focused on getting through the part where Leo saw the sign that he hadn’t let himself imagine anything past it. He figured he was about to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Three periods. He had to get through three periods of hockey before he could put his hands on Dawson again, and his body was already counting down the minutes.
The puck dropped. First shift, Leo cut inside the defenseman and drove the net so hard the goalie had to sprawl. Carter fired the rebound wide. Didn’t matter. Leo was back at the bench before the whistle died, legs shaking, hands too tight on his stick. Sixty minutes between him and that parking lot.
He missed a pass on his second stride—overcooking a one-touch that should’ve been simple. Novo had to reach back for it. Carter dug the puck out of the corner. Leo wasn’t distracted. He was running too hot, too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it except the ice.
“Easy, V.” Jonesy, on the bench beside him, not looking over. “You’re running around out there like someone lit your ass on fire.”
“I had two shots on goal.”
“You also missed a tape-to-tape pass from six feet. Breathe.”
Leo chewed his mouthguard and watched the ice. The other team’s center won a draw, and their winger carried it wide. Sully stepped up and erased him into the boards, and Leo watched the puck squirt free and thought about Dawson’s hand on the glass, his own glove pressed against it, and the nod.We’ll talk after.Dawson’s seats were just a few rows up from their bench. Leo could feel him in the way his focus kept trying to drift sideways.
His next shift was better. He won a board battle in the corner, dug the puck out with his skate, kicked it to his stick, and fed Carter cutting through the slot. Carter’s shot went wide, but the forecheck was relentless—Leo and Novo cycling, Carter driving the net, the three of them moving in patterns they’d spent three months building and were only now starting to trust.
The first period ended scoreless. Leo had four shots on goal, two hits, and had drawn a penalty that led to a power play the Stags couldn’t convert. He sat in the locker room between periods with his elbows on his knees and his head up, and tried to keep his head in the game instead what came after. He was thinking about the second period. About what the ice felt like when he was moving this fast.
Jonesy dropped into the spot next to him, helmet off, hair plastered flat, the red crease across his forehead from the padding. He leaned back and let out a long breath.
