We killed time. Iced the puck twice. Took a penalty with two minutes left that made my dragon snarl, but Taz stood on his head and Chicago couldn’t convert.
One minute left.
Dante’s line was out. I’d sent them for defense, for smart play, for the ability to just survive until the clock hit zero.
Chicago won a draw in our zone. They cycled, looking for a shooting lane, and their defenseman at the point tried to walk the blue line to create space. Dante read it perfectly—stepped up, stripped the puck, and suddenly he had nothing but ice between him and the empty net.
“Go!” I shouted, though he couldn’t hear me over the roar.
He went.
Antoine was chasing him—of course it was Antoine, because the universe had a sense of irony—but Dante had two steps on him and the speed to keep it. Antoine was reaching, hooking, doing everything short of tackling him, but Dante protected the puck with his body exactly the way I’d taught him.
They hit the blue line. Thirty feet from the net. Antoine lunged, trying for one last desperate check, and Dante did it.
The hip move. The one I’d drilled into him a hundred times in practice. He shifted his weight, turned his hip into the contact, and used Antoine’s momentum against him. Antoine went down in a tangle of limbs, and Dante was free.
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t showboat. Just shot it clean into the empty net with fifteen seconds left on the clock.
4-1.
The arena lost its mind, even some of the Chicago fans. Our bench emptied onto the ice as the final horn sounded. I stood there behind the boards, my hands gripping the rail, watching Dante get mobbed by his teammates while Antoine slowly picked himself up off the ice.
We’d won.
We were going to the second round.
I let myself exhale for the first time in twenty minutes. Let myself feel the satisfaction of watching a plan come together, of seeing players execute exactly what we’d worked on, of beating a team that had thought they’d already won.
The handshake line formed. I watched Dante shake hands with Chicago’s players, watched him reach Antoine and offer his glove. Antoine stared at him for a long moment, and I saw something complicated cross his face—anger, resentment, maybe a little bit of respect he didn’t want to admit to.
Then he took Dante’s hand and said something I couldn’t hear. Dante nodded once and moved on.
I met Chicago’s coach at center ice. We shook hands, exchanged the requisite pleasantries, and then I was walking toward our dressing room where I could already hear music starting and voices rising in celebration.
Max caught me at the door. “Hell of a game, Coach.”
“Yep,” I said, and meant it. “Good adjustments in the second.”
The dressing room was chaos—the good kind. Music blasting, guys shouting, Ash already on his phone with someone. I letthem have it for a few minutes, let them celebrate, before I stepped back out into the corridor to catch my breath.
My phone buzzed. A text from Ignatius:Celebration at the team hotel. Everyone invited. Spouses, families that are here. I’ve already invited the Russos.
I stared at the message, something warm settling in my chest. Ignatius didn’t do things halfway. I was pretty sure he would be involved in whatever the council decided to do about Odin’s business, the uranium, and I knew he’d make sure all the employees—especially Nicky—were taken care of.
I texted back:Thank you.
His response was immediate:You just concentrate on the second round.Yeah, because we had another seven games against whoever won tomorrow between Edmonton and Vegas.
I smiled despite myself and pocketed my phone. Through the doorway, I could see Dante in the middle of the chaos, his hair wet from the shower he must have taken while I was out here, that black eye still prominent but his smile wide and genuine. Cole said something to him that made him laugh, and the sound of it went straight through me.
Mine, my dragon rumbled again, possessive and satisfied.
I needed to touch him. Needed it with an intensity that was probably irrational given that I’d been holding him less than three hours ago, but the mate bond was newly sealed and demanding, and watching him out there tonight—brave and brilliant and completely unaware of how extraordinary he was—had left me raw.
I caught his eye across the room and tilted my head slightly toward the corridor. He understood immediately, his expression shifting into something more careful, more professional. He said something to Cole, grabbed his jacket, and made his way through the celebration toward me.
“Coach?” he said when he reached me, his voice pitched loud enough for anyone paying attention. “Did you need something?”
