Page 115 of Line Change

“I know. Last spring.” His fingers catch in one curl. “I watched that series.”

“You were busy in Miami.”

The bastard’s trying not to look smug. Miami lasted longer than we did last spring, and he still has the Cup ring from the season before that. He had better not wear it here if he wants all his fingers.

“You bring up that ring,” I warn him, “and you’re sleeping on the couch.”

“Wasn’t going to.” His mouth starts to pull at one corner.

“You want to.”

“It’s a nice ring.”

I pinch his side. Ben jerks and catches my wrist, laughing while he drags me closer.

Seattle had a three-one lead last spring and still went home early. I want to believe this year will be different.

I leave my hand against his ribs. “You think we’re going to go far?”

Ben’s arm tightens around my shoulders.

“Baby, we’re going all the way.”

33

BEN

We don’t go all the way.

Seattle gets knocked out in the first round. It fucking sucks.

At the beginning of the season, nobody expected us to be there at all. We spent too long below the playoff line, gave away too many leads, and had to fight for every point we got back. Making the postseason should count for something.

It doesn’t feel like it in the locker room after the last game.

Nolan sits beside me with his elbows on his knees and his jersey still on. Half the room is staring at the floor. Bobby has been quiet so long that I keep looking over to make sure he’s still there.

I’ve been in enough losing rooms to know nobody wants perspective yet. Two seasons ago, I held the Cup. Last season ended with an overtime loss in June. Losing in April hurts exactly as much as losing later when the series was close enough to take.

“We should’ve won tonight,” Nolan says.

His curls are still damp with sweat, crushed flat where his helmet sat. I put my forearms on my knees beside his. “Yeah.”

I don’t tell Nolan we did better than people expected. He knows. He also knows we had chances in the series and didn’t finish them. Right now, that’s the part that matters.

I sit with my shoulder against his until we’re ready to get changed.

When Nolan finally stands, he pulls his jersey over his head and drops it at his feet. “You’re coming home with me.”

He says it like I’ve been given an assignment. I pick up his jersey before someone steps on it. “Okay.”

The season ending does leave Nolan enough time to heal a new tattoo before he starts training hard again. By the time a spot opens at the studio, he has been thinking about the piece for months.

“You’re staring,” he says.

“I’m allowed.”

Nolan hooks both hands beneath the hem and lifts. I watch his stomach and chest appear before the shirt catches briefly in his curls. He frees it and drops it across the back of the chair beside mine. Most of the left side of his body is already covered in black-and-gray ink. It runs from his forearm over his shoulder, spreads across his chest, and climbs his neck. The right side is almost bare except for the piece on his thigh.