My gaze drifts toward the sideline where some of the medical staff are standing. Sawyer’s parked in her usual spot, chin in her hands, watching us with that sharp-eyed focus she gets before every game. I love how, now that she’s older, she’s caught on to the plays and seems to enjoy watching the games.
Bri’s weaving between the benches and med tables, taping up a guy’s ankle with quick, efficient movements, chatting with the medical director to go over injuries and protocols. She’s wearing her usual uniform, tight black yoga pants and a fittedMayhemt-shirt that hugs her in all the places I get to touch when no one’s watching. And maybe I shouldn’t be staring so closely but all I can think about is how it’d look to have her inmyjersey out for the world to see. At least I know she’ll be wearing it later tonight, in my bedroom, with nothing on underneath.
The whistle blows. Time to focus. We drop into position, puck hits the ice, and the game’s on. It’s fast. Aggressive. The most physically demanding game we’ve played all season. But I’m init—body, mind, and muscle. My legs feel strong. No twinges in the hamstring. No hesitation. Every save is clean, and every movement feels natural for me. And I know that’s all Bri. Her care. Her consistency. The way she’s stripped the pressure at home from my shoulders so I can focus on playing the game I love.
A puck comes screaming in from the left—wild and unexpected—and I barely catch it with my knee pad.
“Tighten up!” I shout at my defensemen, who look like they’re daydreaming through the damn game.
I miss playing with Levi. Boone was the chaotic one up front on offense, launching pucks like grenades, but Levi was my defensive wall. He saw things coming before they happened. I didn’t have to work this hard when we played together on the ice. It’s honestly too bad we’ve never been able to do that professionally.
Penn breaks through and takes off down the center with the next pass. The crowd roars. He scores a shot so clean I hardly see the puck moving. We’re up by five at the half. An easy game despite my defense sucking.
“Hell yeah,” I mutter under my breath as we skate toward the bench for a break. I squirt water on my face and look toward the bench, trying to catch a glimpse of Bri. She’s there, talking to her dad, and something feels off about the interaction.
Normally, he stays in the owner’s suite, schmoozing sponsors and investors, too important to mingle with the staff whose paychecks he cuts. But today he’s out here, leaning in like he’s got something urgent to say to her.
Something shifts in Bri's expression, subtle enough that most people would miss it. I don't. Her brows draw together for a second. Her lips flatten. Then she gives a short nod and schoolsher features. She doesn't look upset. But I still don't trust the guy. Bri may have forgiven him for walking out on her and her mom, but I'm not sure I'll ever get there. Some things don't stop mattering just because time passes.
And abandoning your kid is one of them.
He follows us toward the tunnel and the locker room. When we get inside, Coach Steele’s already waiting. No doubt ready to tear into us for the sloppy defense in the first half despite the lead that we have.
I sit down on one of the free benches near the corner, towel over my neck, gulping down water and electrolytes, letting the sting of adrenaline pulse through my veins. Coach starts in with his usual barking, but it barely registers because this game is a textbook win for us.
Until he shouts—“Get your heads out of your asses!” Then he pauses, eyes snagging on a figure standing in the doorway. “Ah, Caleb. What a surprise. Nice of you to join us.”
His tone shifts fast—growl smoothing into a saccharine smile.
“You got some words for the boys? They’re getting too comfortable. Game must feel too easy for them if they’re playing like this.”
Caleb nods and steps forward. It’s the first time I’ve really seen him since the day we met to discuss my transfer almost exactly a year ago. That fateful day where I came to New York City and accidentally had a one-night stand that caused me to fall in love with his daughter.
During my contract signing, he was cold. All business. Not a trace of warmth behind those green eyes when he discussed what type of goaltender he needed for the team. I knew I had to play it straight. Play it smart. Keep my damn mouth shut andearn my spot because it was business to him. But now I can sense something’s shifted in him. He looks softer. Maybe not warm exactly but not so serious anymore. And he’s smiling, which is weird as hell for a guy built like he still plays ball professionally.
Then, without a word, he lifts his hands. Andclaps.
I swear to God, I jump. Thought it was a signal, or some kind of warning shot. But no. He’s clapping. Applauding. Us?
He grins. “Boys, I’m so fucking proud of you. And our sponsors are too.”
The locker room erupts. The guys jump up, whooping, grinning, slapping each other on the backs like we just won the Stanley. It’s chaos in the best kind of way. The kind that buzzes through your chest and makes the air taste electric because it’s been a tough start to the season with grueling back-to-back weeks of games and it feels good to celebrate how far we’ve come.
Meanwhile, Coach Steele stands off to the side, arms crossed, and brows drawn like he isn’t pleased with our little halftime celebration. He looks half-annoyed and half like he’s just as surprised by this sudden shift in Caleb’s behavior.
I don’t move. I’m still planted on the bench, arms folded across my chest, heart thudding slow and steady as I study Caleb. He lets us ride the high for a second before his expression shifts. Then, just like that, his face turns to stone.
“You’re killing it this season,” he says, voice sharp and cutting through the noise. “Sponsors are proud. The money’s flowing in which means contracts will be in good shape next season if you keep this up.Ifyou keep it up. But if you don’t stop playing lazy in the second half, I’m telling Coach to bench you all and put in the second string. And your contracts?All of them will be at risk.”
That gets everyone’s attention. The room drops from fired up with smiles to tense in a heartbeat. Backs straighten. Grins fade.
“Don’t get sloppy just because we’re ahead. Steamrolling this team is a requirement and we’re going into the second half putting on a show,” he goes on. “You get lazy now, you lose your edge. You lose your edge, you lose everything. I want a game that slaughters the competition. You got it?”
We all nod in unison.Yeah. Message received.
Then, like it’s nothing, he switches gears again, throwing a crooked grin. “Team dinner tonight after the game. Cancel your shit. Be there. You skip it, you’re fired.”
And then he’s gone. Slides out of the room like he didn’t just give us emotional whiplash. We all look around, stunned, trying to recalibrate. What the hell just happened?
