Page 34 of King of the Crease

My chest tightens. He believes in me. For some unhinged reason, he genuinely believes I can do this. His passion and confidence barrel across the ice and snap right into my chest.

Okay. Fine. Let’s do this.

The rest of the game blurs. Griffin and Mitch are an unscalable wall of defense. The Deep Dives have held off our offense’s advances, too, so the score is still 4-3 heading into the final minute. My legs feel like boiled noodles. The puck comes down on a rush, three of them charging, two of us scrambling. The seconds flash by like a bunch of photographs being snapped in quick succession.

Shot from the blue line—blocked.

Rebound.

Another shot—pad save.

Loose puck in front. Time slows. I dive—full body, no dignity—stretching my stick like Excalibur.

The puck hits it and skitters wide. The horn sounds. Game over. We win.

For a second, I just lie there, sprawled on the ice, staring at the ceiling like I’ve just survived a plane crash.

The team crashes around me, shouting, smacking my helmet, laughing. Then someone grabs my jersey and hauls me upright.

Hank.

He’s grinning like I just scored the winning goal myself.

“You did it!” He says, taking off my helmet, our sweaty heads dangerously close. I can smell his woodsy, sweaty scent through the cold ice.

In that moment, I am glad Hank and I became friends, yet I want to do is kiss my friend in pure, unadulterated glee.

Instead, I laugh—loud, wild, unstoppable.

Me. Crown prince. Goalie. Game winner.

Goalies may have a short memory, but I will remember this moment forever.

11

NICK

I’ve been feted at dinners and galas. I’ve had rooms full of people raise a glass and toast to the crown prince of Ardenia.

And yet, none of those august occasions hold a candle to a bunch of burly hockey players smashing beer pints together and yelling, “To Nick! MVP!”

MVP might be a better title than crown prince.

“Congratulations to the new guy for that clutch save in the final seconds. Throwing your body across the goal like you were a freaking secret service agent…I nearly had tears in my eyes.” Bill lifts his pint glass, reaches across the table to clink it against mine. In that moment, Bill Crandell’s approval means as much to me as my father’s.

Beer sloshes out of my teammates’ glasses onto the table. It’s a bit challenging to drink beer when I’m smiling this big. My lips can’t close around the glass.

The Comebacks are sitting at a long table in Mitch’s bar, Stone’s Throw Tavern. It has an elevated hole-in-the-wall feeling. Cozy and homey, but still nicely furnished. A big Christmas tree stands next to giant windows in the back overlooking the river. Patrons play games of life-size Jenga. A spiral staircase with garland on the banister curlicues up to an off-limits loft space that’s Mitch’s office. Football plays on a bank of TVs above the bar.

I haven’t been in a bar remotely like this since university, and even then, I couldn’t stay long because of fears around security. Onlookers would openly stare at me, take pictures, firmly in the belief that since I was a public figure I had no right to privacy.

“Nick, I think you need to teach Hank a thing or two.” Des is the only one not drinking a beer. He opted for a martini, an odd choice in a place like this, but I get the feeling it’s a regular occurrence for him.

“The student has become the teacher.” Hank flashes me a lazy half-smile as he sips his beer across the table. Does he realize how adorable he is? A big, sexy teddy bear.

“It was one game. One period in one game,” I say.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Derek says. “You had some awesome saves in there.”