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“You nervous?” I asked.

He looked up, then back down at his stick like he was seeing it for the first time. Quickly, he tore the tape with his teeth and smoothed the edge with his thumb. Then he stood, bounced on the balls of his feet a couple of times, and walked over to my stall.

I waited. Goalies in general were good at waiting—we had to be—but as a Gordon I liked to think I had exceptional patience.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” He kept his voice low so no one else would hear, not that they were paying attention anyway. Liam was telling some story that had Drew wheezing. Foster was lacing his skates and listening to his pre-game playlist.

“You’re already talking to me.”

Eric huffed a short laugh but it died fast. He sat on the bench next to me and leaned his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. “I know I kind of showed up out of nowhere and that probably put you in a weird spot with Sam. I didn’t mean for it to go down like that. I thought I’d have time to tell her before the game, but everything moved faster than I expected once I landed. I just didn’t want her to think you knew about me coming since we both know you didn’t.”

“You’re good. Sam knows I don’t keep secrets from her.”

He nodded like he was reassuring himself. “Good. I’m sorry for how things went down back home too. None of that was right. Sam deserved a lot better. She’s tougher than anyone gives her credit for.”

“I know.”

He spun on the bench to face me. “Look, I want you to know that I’m not here to cause problems. But I also need you to know I’m here because I want to be close to my sister.”

Sam had already told me all of this. I was surprised it had taken Eric two weeks to work up the courage to talk to me about it.

“But I also want to be a good teammate to you, and I’d really like to know where we stand. You and me.”

Eric had pulled his weight with the team since he’d arrived and impressed the hell out of me. As far as Sam went, he’d been letting her take the lead while regularly checking in so she knew he was serious about wanting to get to know who she was now.

“Sam’s been hurt enough by your family. As long as you don’t add to it, you and I are fine.”

His throat bobbed, but there was determination in his gaze that I admired. “I won’t.”

“Then we’re good. Now go finish getting ready.”

He gave me a smile and went back to his stall.

Foster appeared in my peripheral vision and sat in the spot Eric had just vacated. “Everything good?”

“Yeah.”

Coach gave us his usual pre-game pep talk and then it was time for warm-ups.

We filed through the tunnel, and the cold hit me like a clean slap that cleared my head and narrowed my focus. The arena was louder than last game. Students were back for the semester and the student section was packed, which meant the energy was up.

I skated to my crease and started my routine. Post-to-post slides, butterfly drops, glove snaps. The ice was fresh and my edges bit clean. I tracked the puck and the players during warm-up shots, reading the release points and getting back into my groove. Liam fired one high glove and I snatched it out of the air without thinking.

“Show-off,” he called.

I flipped the puck back to him and reset.

The buzzer sounded. We cleared for the anthem, and then we were back on the ice for the opening face-off. The opposing team was from Colorado, and they had a strong first line. Their center won the draw from Foster and passed the puck to their right winger. He carried the puck into our zone on the rush and fired a wrister from the top of the circle. I picked it up early, tracked it through the traffic, and kicked it to the corner with my pad. Drew was on it immediately, chipping it off the glass and out of the zone.

The first period went fast. Both teams pushed tempo, and the hits were heavier than usual. Colorado liked to finish their checks, and a couple of our guys got caught admiring their passes. Liam got rocked along the boards on a dump-and-chase play, but he popped up grinning, which meant he was about to make whoever hit him regret it.

Foster’s line controlled the next few shifts. He won three straight draws, and Drew quarterbacked the puck from the blue line with eagerness in his gaze. He faked a slap shot and slid it across to Liam, who one-timed it low blocker. The Colorado goalie got a piece of it, but the rebound squirted loose and Foster jammed it home.

The bench erupted as sticks banged on the boards and helmets got slapped. Foster pointed at Drew as they skated back to center ice because the goal had started with Drew’s fake. Drew shrugged like it was nothing, which it wasn’t—the play was filthy.

Eric’s line came out for the next shift. I settled into my crease and watched.

He lined up on the left wing and took the draw position seriously, leaning forward on his stick, eyes locked on the puck. When the center won the face-off back, Eric was already moving. He drove wide along the boards and called for the pass, took it in stride, and carried it into the zone with a burst of speed I hadn’t seen from him in practice.