Page 219 of On the Breakaway

In a few days, we’ll have four chances to prove exactly why we belong in the Stanley Cup Final.

Outside these walls, Avery’s is waiting for me.

I have my team.

I have her.

And no matter what happens next, that’s really all I need.

43

Avery

The Blue Line is growing more crowded by the minute. Sloane insists it’s just the usual Friday night rush, but I’m pretty sure half the city has figured out the Blades will end up here tonight.

Every few minutes, another person glances toward our corner before their eyes drift to the front door, like they’re waiting for the team to make their entrance. It isn’t exactly an unreasonable assumption. Most nights, if we’re here, the guys aren’t far behind.

For now, though, it’s just Harper, Wesley, Sloane, and me stretched across our usual couch in the back. The tables around us have already been roped off in anticipation, empty beer pitchers waiting like placeholders for the chaos that’s about to arrive.

Harper points an accusing finger at Sloane.

“You’re only two years younger than me. You can’t keep acting like I’m eighty.”

Sloane laughs into her drink. “You hardly ever come out with us. That’s all I said.”

“Maybe that’ll have to change.”

Harper smiles, and if someone didn’t know her, they’d probably believe it. But I do know her. The smile never reaches her eyes, disappearing almost as quickly as it appeared, while her gaze drifts somewhere over my shoulder toward nothing at all.

She’s not taking the divorce nearly as well as she wants us to believe, but she’s hell-bent on smiling through it anyway.

“We need new drinks.” Sloane motions toward our empty glasses.

“I don’t want to get up,” Harper says, spinning the last melting ice cube around her cup.

“Me neither.”

“Absolutely not.” Wesley and I answer at exactly the same time.

The four of us glance toward each other before our attention collectively shifts to the entrance, just as the first Blades player wanders inside. An idea immediately forms.

“Alright.” I lean across the coffee table as if I’m about to reveal state secrets. “Let’s make a deal.”

Three sets of eyes lock onto me.

“The first one who convinces one of the guys to buy our next round gets free drinks for a month.”

Harper groans before I’ve even finished. “That’s completely unfair. I don’t know any of them the way you guys do.”

“Oh, please.” I wave her off. “If you asked nicely, Liam would buy you drinks for the rest of your life.”

Sloane nods thoughtfully. “Or Tim.”

Harper rolls her eyes.

Another wave of players filters through the front door, giving us exactly three seconds to commit.

“Deal,” Wesley says, already sitting forward with the kind of competitive look that usually ends with her winning.