Derek bumps my good shoulder. “You can still cheer.”
The line change comes fast. Grayson coasts to the bench for his water bottle, then his eyes climb to the family section through the glass. He lifts the bottle in a small private salute. I raise mine back. His grin shifts to the easy one this time, the one that creases the corners. Heat climbs the back of my neck.
“Look at the two of you.” Derek shakes his head. “Disgusting.”
I grin.
The third period turns brutal. Crimson Rock’s new alpha has clearly sent his team out to draw blood, and twice Brent takes runs at Grayson the refs call too late to matter. Grayson doesn’t retaliate. He absorbs the hits and recycles them into speed, his line surging up the ice in formations that look rehearsed, his focus never leaving the puck. The third time Brent comes at him, Grayson slips the check at the last possible second. Brent goes face-first into the boards with a crunch that makes the whole arena wince.
“Oh,” Derek breathes. “That was beautiful.”
“That was petty.” I smile viciously. “I hope it hurt.”
Grayson sails past with his stick raised, no glance spared for Brent’s crumpled form behind him. Time bleeds down. Two minutes become one, then thirty seconds, then ten. Brody intercepts a desperate pass at center ice, finds Samuel breaking free, the two of them working it up the ice in a textbook give-and-go that ends with Samuel burying it under the goalie’s blocker.
The buzzer goes. Silverpeak takes it by three. The arena detonates.
I’m up without deciding to be, both arms in the air, the pain in my shoulder forgotten somewhere behind me. Derek’s whooping at my side. Down on the ice, the team has piled onto Samuel in a celebration that’s half hockey, half full-pack joy, Brody screaming into Samuel’s helmet while Eric slides out of his crease across half the rink to reach them.
Grayson breaks from the pile, skating straight to the boards in front of our box. He’s beaming, lit up, a man let loose. He bangs his glove against the glass once, pointing at me through it, and the gesture drags a flush up my neck I don’t bother fighting. His chin tips toward the corridor.
“Go.” Derek waves me off. “I’ll meet you at the family entrance.”
I push out of the row, down the stairs at a half jog, my shoulder’s ache nowhere in my mind. Grayson is waiting by the door to the ice when I get there, helmet tucked under his arm, hair damp at the temples. He drops the helmet onto the rubber matting and pulls me in without ceremony.
His mouth finds mine before I’ve caught my breath. Cold air, sweat, the faint copper edge of a man fresh off sixty minutes of hard hockey. His glove is still on the hand that cups my jaw, the leather rough at my skin, his kiss shutting out the whole arena. My hand fists in the front of his jersey.
“You won,” I manage when he pulls away to let me breathe.
“We won because you were watching.” His thumb grazes my lower lip.
“Butter me up more and I’ll start sliding on the floor.”
He laughs against my mouth, low in his chest. “Press scrum’s going to eat an hour, minimum. Derek will take you home. I’ll be right behind you the second they let me out.”
“Be safe.”
“Always.” He kisses me again, slower, harder, his mouth gone possessive. “Wait up for me.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sir cracks his grin wide open. He kisses the tip of my nose carefully and reverently. Then a sponsor handler materializes at his elbow with a clipboard, an apologetic smile on his face. Grayson rolls his eyes, throws me one last look, and lets himself be steered toward the press room. I press my fingers to my mouth. His taste is still there when Derek finds me.
The drive home goes quickly. Derek takes the back roads around the post-game crush, so we make the gates of the property in under twenty minutes. The radio keeps replaying Samuel’s third-period goal in louder recaps with every mile. I rest my head against the cool window, letting myself smile at it.
“He really is good, isn’t he?” I murmur.
“Best in the league this season.” Derek’s voice is calm, pleased. “He’s been playing with something to prove.”
I think of Ethan at home with Linda, ChuChu under one arm, the afternoon cartoons going. Tonight he’ll want his three bedtime stories and the kiss on the forehead, the same as always. The thought of it steadies me for as long as it takes us to turn up the drive.
The gravel crunches under the tires. The house sits quiet in the pale four o’clock light, the windows blank, nothing moving behind any of them. I’m halfway out of my seatbelt when my eyes catch the front door. It stands half open, the glass set into it punched inward, bright shards scattered across the porch boards and down the front steps.
Wrongness slides down my spine.
“Derek.”
“I see it.” His voice has changed. “Stay behind me.”
