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Cade’s extremely protective of Margot. I remember when we were kids and some bantam forward made Margot cry at a tournament, Cade put him into the boards for it. No one messes with Margot. We made sure of it.

"She’s okay with this?"

"It was half her idea." True, at least.

"Because if the press turns my sister into a puck-bunny headline, Jax, I swear to God I’ll hurt you."

"They won't. I've got her. I promise I’ll protect her." Also true, in ways I will take to my grave.

"I trust you. You're the only guy in that whole league I'd hand her to. Keep it professional. Don't let it get weird."

“Yup. Professional.” I just had my fingers inside your sister and she sobbed my name into my pillow. "Course, man. I won’t let it get weird."

"Tell her to call my Mom." And the line goes dead.

I set the phone down and find Margot staring at me.

"Strictly business." Her voice is flat.

"That's the story." I hold her eyes.

She nods. “Okay, I have to head out, I need to go home. Can I wear this jersey home? It's so comfortable.”

“Of course. I think my jersey looks better on you than me. I watch her pack up, grab her keys and leave.

Saturday arrives the way playoff hockey always arrives. Too fast.

By six the building is already breathing over our heads, twenty thousand people filing into their seats, the low concrete thunder of them rolling down into the room. Down here it smells the way it has smelled my whole life. Sweat, cut steel, fresh tape and whatever unholy pregame bagel Mason is inhaling in the corner.

I tape my stick the way I've taped it since juniors, black over the toe, a strip up the shaft, and try not to think about the fact that in two hours I'm supposed to kiss Margot on a national broadcast.

Mason runs his pregame like a man defusing a bomb only he can see.

Same lucky socks, gray at the heel and frankly a biohazard. God help the soul who moves his water bottle a quarter inch.

Ryker drops onto the bench beside me, shoulder pads on, no jersey yet, grinning like a penalty waiting to happen. "So… your girlfriend's in the building tonight."

"She's always in the building. She works here."

"Oh, we know that now. But she’s never in the friends-and-family box." He wags his eyebrows. "Somebody put her on the list. And word is she's wearing a certain number jersey. Bold, Hunter. Real bold."

My hands go still on the tape. “Wait. What number?”

"Leave him." Aiden's already dressed, the captain's C stitched over his heart, lacing his skates with the focus of a man who has won nothing yet tonight and fully intends to fix that. "He's nervous. First girl he's brought to a barn. Look at his hands."

"I'm not nervous."

"You've taped that stick numerous times." Mason looks up from eating his bagel.

I look down. I have, in fact, taped the stick numerous times.

Coach says his speech. Aiden says his, short and perfect. We go up the tunnel and into the noise, and I will never get tired of this part as long as I live.

The wall of sound hits like a check. Twenty thousand on their feet, white towels spinning over their heads, the organ howling, the ice so clean under the lights it looks like something nobody should be allowed to ruin.

The building is a living thing, and for the next sixty minutes it breathes when we breathe.

I find her during warmups because I have no say in the matter. Front row of the family box, right near the glass, and there she is in my jersey wearing my number, and it takes me out at the knees like a hit I never saw coming.