Page 28 of Double Puck

But hockey belongs to her.

“Look at us. Two healthy adults with absolutely no issues.” I lift my coffee between us. “Good thing I’ve got those sessions with Poppy coming up, hey? Maybe you should join me? We could double-team her?”

Her laugh bursts out of her as she smothers it with her hand. "Oh my God. Beck!"

“Oh, come on, that's not what I meant.” I hold up my hands, grinning. “Get your head out of the gutter, Madden.”

“You said we should double team Poppy.”

“I meant tag-team the conversation. Therapeutically.”

She presses her napkin to her mouth, and I can see the laugh fighting its way out from behind it. And then she loses it. Full-on loses it, head tipping back, shoulders shaking, that composed Darcy Madden mask cracking wide open right in front of me.

It's loud and real and a little bit ugly around the edges, but it might just be the best fucking sound I've heard all week.

I lean back, watching the laugh fade into something warmer that stays in her eyes. "I don't think I've seen you laugh like that before."

She swipes at her eyes and takes a breath. "That's because normally I'm surrounded by men saying idiotic things and expecting me to be impressed."

"And now?"

She considers me over the rim of her coffee cup. "Now I'm surrounded by one idiotic man. Slightly different math."

"Still an improvement?"

"Don't push your luck, Morrison." She pushes up off the table and leaves a tip for Luna. "Come on, let's go. You're due in the gym in twenty minutes."

Later that afternoon, the film room smells like sweat and Margot Lawson's chicken wraps, which is honestly the best this place has ever smelled after practice.

"Here." Coach taps the giant screen we're all staring at. "Watch Declan. Sees the lane before it exists."

A replay of the practice session we just had flashes before our eyes. I'm sprawled across three tiered seats with a wrap in one hand and a shake in the other, watching Coach rewind the same clip for the third fucking time in ten minutes.

On screen, Declan takes the puck off the boards and threads it through traffic like he's got GPS in his helmet. Spencer's already moving, already open, and he buries the one-timer so clean the net barely flinches.

"That's vision," Coach says. "And Holland, your positioning was perfect. We need that this weekend. That's where goals come from, gentlemen."

The room rumbles. Spencer gives a little bow from his seat. Declan nods along too, like being right is a burden he carries for all of us.

And me? I've leaned forward, trying to catch the play half-second earlier than Coach just showed it.

There's a defender in the corner of the frame that's paused. My guy. The one I put into the boards with a clean, hard hit two seconds before Declan even touches the puck. The hit that keeps him from recovering. The hit that opens the lane Coach just circled twice with his marker.

Nobody rewinds that part.

And worse… there's no stat for my contribution to that play.

No point, no assist.

No trace within any statistical model anyone in the country can come up with.

But that goal doesn't happen without me, and the one person in this building I'd kill to have notice has been counting everything except that.

"Alright, get out of here," Coach barks. "Recovery day tomorrow. Shakes are mandatory. Margot's words, not mine."

The team pours out and in the corridor, Mason falls into step beside me. We cut across the operations floor toward the elevators, planning whether we're eating at the mansion tonight, or heading straight to Breakers for Happy Hour.

Then I stop.