“And you have to think Coach Kincaid is glad to have him back. After that disaster in game six—I don’t think any of us have ever seen the Dragons look that flat in a playoff game—they desperately need every weapon they’ve got. Russo scored the game-winner in game five, remember.”
“Speaking of weapons, nice to see Max Renaud back at full strength too.”
I stood behind the bench, my hands resting lightly on the boards, sensing the energy from nineteen thousand people who knew they were watching something that mattered. Game seven. The last one. Whoever won tonight would advance to round two and another seven games. Win or go home. It had come down to that.
I glanced down the bench and found him. Third line, sitting between Cole and Keegan, his helmet on, mouthguard chewed sideways in that way he had when he was nervous. The black eye looked worse under the arena lights than it had in the locker room, but the swelling had gone down. He’d told the media exactly what we’d agreed on—a fender bender, airbag deployment, lucky he wasn’t hurt worse. He’d recited it like a kid reading off a script, and somehow that had made the reporters believe it more.
The woman who had said she was his new agent didn’t exist, but Cole had recommended his, and I knew a new car would be the least he got.
He turned his head as if he’d felt me looking, and our eyes met for half a second across the bench. He didn’t smile. He didn’thave to. The corner of his mouth twitched once, professional as anything, and then he looked back out at the ice.
Mine, my dragon rumbled, low and satisfied beneath my ribs.
Mine, I agreed.
The anthem started and ended. The crowd roared. Max skated to center ice for the opening face-off, his shoulders set in that particular way that meant he was about to make this game his personal mission.
I leaned forward against the boards.
“Let’s go,” I said quietly, to no one and everyone.
The puck dropped.
Chicago came out of the gate like they’d already won. You could see it in the way they skated—loose, loud, half a step slower than they needed to be. Antoine in particular was performing. Every shift he was out there with his chest puffed up, chirping at our bench, taking the long route around the offensive zone so the cameras could catch him. He scored two goals in game six and suddenly he thought he was golden.
I watched him line up against Cole for a face-off and lean in to say something. Cole didn’t even look at him. Just stared down at the dot like Antoine wasn’t there. Antoine laughed and tapped Cole’s skate with his stick, the kind of move a guy made when he thought he was untouchable.
He had no idea.
My dragon stirred, a slow coil of heat behind my breastbone. I’d been awake less than seven hours. By every law of biology I knew, I shouldn’t have been standing. But forge dragons ran hot, and a mate bond fully claimed ran hotter still—I’d felt it lock into place sometime in the night, while Dante had been crying into my shoulder and telling me he was moving in whether I liked it or not. Whatever damage the radiation had done deep inside me, that bond had finished healing what my dragon couldn’t. I’d woken at nine, ravenous, whole, and three-quarters terrified ofhow good I felt. Dante wouldn’t get his mark until I took him for his first flight. I had a lot of explaining to do, but we’d both agreed to focus on the game.
It had been the only benefit of the last game being in Chicago, so none of us had to cope with traveling. Well, that, and the fact Dante’s family were VIP guests of Ignatius.
Chicago’s coach was leaning on the boards down the ice, arms crossed, looking smug. I let him.
“They’re flat,” Max said as he glided in for a line change, breathing hard. “They think we’re done.”
“Let them think it,” I said.
He grinned around his mouthguard and in a moment was gone again.
Two minutes later, Cole won a draw cleanly back to Max at the point. Max waited—one beat, two—until the Chicago defender committed, then slid it laterally to Keegan at the half-wall. Keegan didn’t shoot. He threw it back to the slot blind, and Cole was already there, stick down, one-timing it through the goalie’s five-hole before the netminder had finished sliding across.
The arena exploded.
Cole didn’t celebrate. He skated to the bench with his head down and tapped gloves with the line waiting to go on, and when he sat, he glanced up at me once. His eyes flickered red and steadied.
“Good shift,” I said.
“Antoine’s mouthing off down there.”
“Let him.”
Chicago didn’t adjust. That was the thing that struck me as the first period rolled on—they didn’t change a thing. Their bench was still loose, still laughing on the changes, still treating this like a game they’d already locked up in the second period of game six. Antoine took a lazy stick to Ash’s ankles on a forecheck and gave the ref a look like how dare you when the arm went up.
Power play.
I tapped Cole’s shoulder. “Take Russo with you.”
