Page 48

“Excellent point, Jack, because I can barely hear myself, and we’re wearing headsets.”

I rolled my shoulders and shifted my grip on my stick while the starting lines circled beneath the lights, the crowd rising around us in a wall of blue and silver that had been building since warmups.

Game Three meant home ice with the series tied one-one, and we'd been back in Denver for less than forty-eight hours, but apparently every person in the city had already decided breathing was optional as long as they could scream instead.

Baelor leaned over the boards beside me, watching Vegas complete their final circuit. “I think the guy behind the bench is having some kind of medical event.”

I glanced through the glass at a man wearing a Dragons jersey and what appeared to be a dragon-shaped hat. He was pounding both fists against his chest while roaring at the ice, although he seemed perfectly happy about whatever medical crisis Baelor had diagnosed.

“He looks fine.”

“He’s purple.”

“That's team spirit.”

Dante appeared on my other side and followed our gaze. “If he dies, I’m not signing the hat.”

Baelor looked offended. “Heartless.”

“Practical.”

Kinkaid turned his head and simply observed us. Apparently, some survival instincts were universal, because all three of us shut up.

I looked back toward center ice, where Max was crouched over his stick waiting for the linesman to settle everyone before the opening faceoff.

He looked exactly the way Max always looked before puck drop—calm, focused, and completely untouched by anything that existed beyond the sixty minutes ahead of him. His shoulders were loose, his weight balanced over his skates, and if I hadn't spent the last few days watching the cracks appear in that control, I might have believed there wasn't a woman telling increasingly creative lies about what had happened in his apartment or half the internet dissecting photographs of his private life.

Unfortunately, I was beginning to know Max far too well.

Or maybe that worked both ways.

“Of course,” Dave said as the television feed tightened on the Dragons' captain, “there's another question hanging over Game Three tonight, and it has very little to do with Colorado's systems.”

“I think we all know where you're going with this.”

“Max Renaud. Statistically, he's been one of Colorado's most consistent postseason performers for more than a decade, but I don't think anyone watching Game Two would argue we saw Renaud at his best.”

“No. He was minus-two in that five-two loss, took an unnecessary penalty late in the second, and there were moments when he seemed far more interested in responding physically to Vegas than controlling the game.”

“He's also had quite a week away from the rink, with Melanie Carter's allegations generating considerably more attention than Renaud would probably like.”

“That's putting it mildly, Dave, although Colorado has made its position clear. Renaud denies having a relationship with Carter, and there's been nothing produced publicly that contradicts him.”

“Which leaves us with the question that actually matters tonight. Can the Colorado captain put all of that noise aside and get back to being Max Renaud?”

The puck dropped, Max won the draw cleanly, and then he spent the next forty seconds answering the question.

He drove through center ice with Vegas immediately backing off, moved the puck wide before taking a hit that should have knocked him off his skates, and somehow stayed upright long enough to chase it into the corner. The crowd surged to its feet, and I was already standing with them, leaning over the boards and muttering encouragement I knew he couldn't possibly hear.

Max pinned the puck against the wall for barely a second before kicking it free, turning away from the defenseman trying to hold him there and feeding it behind the net. His winger picked it up and sent it back toward the point, but Vegas got a stick into the passing lane and knocked it loose.

Max reached it before anyone else.

Of course he fucking did.

He collected the puck along the boards, dragged it away from one defender, and sent a pass through a gap I hadn't even seen until the puck was already on the other side. The shot came immediately, the goalie made the first save, but the rebound kicked loose and Colorado buried it before Vegas could clear.

The arena detonated.