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I looked back toward the corner. “I'm guessing this is the will?”

“Definitely.”

Maybe Max really hated Vegas, or maybe he'd spent the last few days being accused of things he hadn't done and watching strangers pick apart his private life while cameras waited for him to react.

Either way, Vegas's defenseman was having a very bad evening.

Max came away from the corner with the puck, carried it high, and sent it across the ice to Keegan, who buried it.

Colorado led 3-2, and the building erupted again.

Max didn't celebrate much this time, giving Keegan one hard fist against the shoulder and a brief collision of helmets before turning toward center ice. His gaze passed over our bench, stopped on me, and I smiled before I could stop myself.

Vegas came close with four minutes left.

Far too close.

Their winger broke through neutral ice after a turnover, and suddenly there was nobody between him and Taz except one defenseman already losing the race. The entire arena seemed to inhale as the Vegas player cut inside, pulled the puck to his backhand, and waited for Taz to commit.

Taz didn't.

He held his position until the shot came and then exploded sideways, catching the puck cleanly in his glove.

For a heartbeat, the building seemed unable to process what had happened. Then Taz stood, casually dropped the puck for the referee, and took a drink from his bottle as though he hadn't just prevented the entire city of Denver from having a collective nervous breakdown.

The chant started almost immediately.

“Taz! Taz! Taz!”

Our empty-netter came ninety seconds later, sealing the game 4-2.

When the final horn sounded, the noise inside the arena became almost physical. Colorado had taken Game Three and a two-one series lead, and for the first time since Dad had appeared in that corridor, something inside me felt lighter.

Not fixed, because I wasn't stupid enough to believe one hockey game could accomplish that, but for sixty minutes I'd been able to forget about phone calls, messages, money, and a video I hadn't willingly watched in more than twenty years.

I'd simply played hockey, and we'd won.

Max found me in the chaos near the bench and caught the back of my neck with one gloved hand.

“Hell of a game.”

His thumb moved once against the edge of my neck, probably unconsciously, but the tiny movement still sent heat down my spine.

“Max.”

Something in my voice must have warned him because his eyes sharpened immediately. “What?”

I glanced around us. Nobody appeared to be watching, but there were cameras everywhere, reporters waiting beyond the tunnel, and thousands of phones still pointed toward the ice.

“That.”

Understanding softened his expression, and his hand dropped. “Later?”

I knew exactly what he meant.

His apartment. Food. The replacement couch and probably the baking show because we were only two episodes away from the final.

Maybe his bed.