I stood there frozen for a moment, watching Dante get mobbed by his teammates, watching him disappear under a pileof celebrating Dragons, and something in my chest cracked wide open.
He’d done it. He’d scored the game-winning goal in overtime against his former team. Against Antoine. Against everyone who’d told him he wasn’t good enough.
The team cleared the ice eventually, heading for the locker room in various states of euphoria. I followed more slowly, my mind already racing through what I needed to say, how I was going to say it, to be honest after weeks of carefully constructed distance.
The locker room was chaos—players celebrating, music blaring, joy that came from winning when you’d been down. I let them have their moment, standing near the door and watching Dante accept congratulations from his teammates with that smile that made him look younger than twenty-three. I waited until most of the team had filtered out, giving them space to celebrate while I dealt with the post-game responsibilities—media availability, checking injury reports, coordinating with the equipment staff about tomorrow’s travel schedule. All the administrative tasks that came with coaching, even when what I actually wanted to do was corner Dante and tell him what I felt.
That he was the air that I breathed.
By the time I made it back to the locker room, it was nearly empty. Just a few stragglers finishing up, and Dante sitting in front of his stall, still in his equipment, his head tipped back against the wall with his eyes closed.
“Dante,” I said, and he opened his eyes, turning to look at me. “Hell of a game.”
“Thanks, Coach.” His smile was tired but genuine. “Felt good to contribute.”
“You did more than contribute.” I moved closer, aware that we were essentially alone now, aware that this was my chance.“Listen, I was wondering if you needed a ride home. We should talk about—”
“There he is!” A voice cut through from the corridor, and suddenly the doorway was filled with reporters, cameras, microphones, the whole circus that came with being the game’s hero. “Russo, Coach, can we get a few minutes?”
I watched his expression shift from surprise to resignation. This was part of it—the media attention, the spotlight, especially after scoring the game-winner against your former team. He couldn’t avoid it, and I couldn’t pull rank to protect him without making it obvious that I was treating him differently than any other player. They mobbed Dante then turned their attention on me, and by the time I got away, Dante was heading down the corridor.
I grabbed my jacket and followed, only to be waylaid by the GM. I rushed through agreeing it had been a great game, even though in my head I was already planning what I was going to say to Dante. How I’d explain that I’d been wrong, that distance hadn’t protected either of us, that seeing him with Odin had made me realize—
I stopped dead when I got to the reserved lot.
Dante was standing by a car, his bag slung over his shoulder, talking to someone through the driver’s window. As I watched, he opened the passenger door and climbed in.
The car pulled forward slightly, passing under one of the overhead lights, and I got a clear view of the driver.
Odin Clark.
Odin fucking Clark had picked Dante up from the arena. Had been waiting for him in the parking lot while I’d been answering stupid-ass questions that didn’t matter.
I stood there watching the taillights disappear, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my dragon howling with fury.
I rushed to my truck already knowing I was going to follow them.
Chapter sixteen
Penalty Kill - Defending while short-handed due to a penalty.
Dante
I headed to the reserved parking, pulling my phone out to order a ride. I should have been on top of the world, but this thing with Theron was killing me. The way he’d called meDantein a softer voice than he’d ever used. I needed to get a life. Go out. Get laid. I looked up at the shout and stared in shock at Odin, waving at me from a sleek Mercedes. “Jump in,” heyelled, and while I really didn’t want to, I reminded myself this was Nicky’s boss. I answered with my own wave and threw my bag in the back and climbed into the passenger seat, sinking into leather that was way too comfortable. The interior smelled like expensive cologne and new car, and I found myself relaxing slightly as we pulled out of the lot.
“That second goal was incredible,” Odin said as he navigated through downtown traffic. “The footwork, the release—I don’t know much about hockey, but even I could tell that was special.”
“Thanks. Coach and I have been working on it.”
Something flickered across his face at the mention of Kincaid, but it was gone too fast for me to read. “He seems very invested in your development.”
“He’s a good coach.” I didn’t know what else to say that wouldn’t reveal too much about the complicated mess of feelings I had about Theron Kincaid.
We drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I let my head fall back against the headrest, feeling the adrenaline from the game starting to fade. My body was reminding me that I’d played hard minutes, that I’d taken hits, that I was still recovering from a beating even if Cinder had cleared me.
“You okay?” Odin asked, glancing over at me.
“Just tired. It’s been a long week.”
