Page 88 of Take Two

“Better than I expected,” I say, and I rest my hand on my brother’s shoulder and ask him the same question without using a single word.

Julian nods, reading it the way he always does. He pulls me into another hug, and I hold on a second longer than I normally would before we separate.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I call out, already at my door, throwing a wave toward Julian and my parents still framed in the doorway.

“You better,” he says, pulling his keys from his pocket and climbing back into his truck.

I reverse out of the driveway and wait for Julian to pull ahead before following him down the street for the last time tonight.

The drive back toward Los Angeles feels lighter than the one that brought me here, the car quieter and easier somehow, the highway less like something I’m enduring and more like something I’m simply passing through. I know one Sunday dinner doesn’t undo years of silence or repair what was broken between us cleanly and completely. The first step has been taken, and more than that, it was taken willingly, on all sides. For the first time in a long time, I can genuinely imagine coming back to this house without spending the drive steeling myself for what’s waiting inside.

As the city lights appear ahead of me, rising out of the dark in their familiar sprawling pattern, my thoughts move north to a city I’ve been quietly calling home in my head for months now, and to the man waiting in it, even if he doesn’t yet know the full shape of what I’ve decided.

I have plans to make.

Chapter 24

Jamie

The puck dies behind our net with eighteen seconds left in the third period and the score’s tied at three.

Sebastian leaves it for me, already shouting something I can’t hear over the roar inside the arena. I circle behind the crease and collect it on my forehand, lifting my head as the Portland Kodiaks spread across the neutral zone. They’ve spent the entire night clogging lanes, finishing every check, and making us fight for every inch of ice. My legs are heavy, my shoulder is screaming, and there’s barely enough time left to capitalize on anything, but I try anyway. I’ve played like shit all night, well, what I would consider shit and I want us to win.

Their first forechecker cuts toward me before I clear the goal line. I shift the puck to my backhand and lean away from his stick, slipping past him close enough to feel his glove scrape across my hip. Devan drives up the middle ahead of me, forcing the second forward to choose between closing on me and letting two hundred and thirty pounds of determined enforcer barrel into open ice untouched.

He chooses Devan and I smile, good man.

I push harder, crossing our blue line with the puck nestled against my blade. The crowd rises with me, the sound building as the clock bleeds into single digits. Portland’s defense backs toward its own zone, one man tracking Tor on my right while the other squares himself to me.

Eight seconds.

I cross center ice and cut left. A stick reaches across my body, catching the lower edge of my glove before I wrench free. Devan collides with his man along the boards, keeping him occupied without giving the officials enough to call. Tor enters the zone beside me, and I send the puck across before the defenseman can close the gap.

Six seconds.

Tor receives it cleanly near the right circle. The nearest Kodiak turns toward him, and I keep moving, cutting behind the defender instead of slowing down. My lungs burn and my thighs feel carved from concrete. Every instinct tells me the lane is too narrow and the clock is too far gone. Tor has other plans, he snaps the puck back through the space between two sticks.

I catch it on my forehand as a defenseman crashes into my side. His shoulder drives beneath mine and knocks me off balance, but I keep the puck long enough to drag it around his skate. I have one opening, half a stride, and one more shot before this thing goes to overtime.

I release it, the puck leaves my blade as I start going down, rising above the goalie’s blocker and catching the inside of the far post before snapping into the net.

The red light flares and the goal horn erupts. The entire Climate Pledge Arena loses its collective mind.

I hit the ice hard enough to jar my teeth, but I barely register it before Devan crashes down on top of me, yelling directly into my ear. Tor follows, then Ridley and Tobias, and suddenly I am buried beneath gloves, sticks, and grown men who have apparently forgotten how much each of us weighs.

“Get off me,” I shout, laughing despite the pressure crushing the air from my lungs.

“Game-winner, Maxwell!” Devan bellows, grinding his glove over the top of my helmet. “That’s my fucking boy.”

“Your boy is suffocating,” I manage with a grunt as they all pull off me.

Tor grabs the back of Devan’s jersey and hauls him away far enough for me to breathe. “Let him up before you injure the man who just saved us from overtime.”

The scoreboard shows 1.4 seconds left of game play. One second and change between us and the ugliest win we have scraped together all season.

My teammates pull me upright, thumping my helmet and shoulders as we skate toward the bench. The arena is shaking beneath my blades. Fans are on their feet in every section, waving towels, pounding the glass, and screaming loud enough that the sound becomes something physical against my chest.

The officials force us back to center ice for the final faceoff. Portland barely gets a stick on the puck before the horn sounds, sealing the win and sending another wave of noise through the building.