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"Fine, I'll go," I said. "But I'm not staying out past midnight."

"Deal. Saturday. There's a cocktail bar in the Seaport that Jess from my office keeps recommending. So we will check it out. I'll text you the details," she paused. "And Lillah?"

"Yeah?"

"Regardless of what you think right now, you're going to kill it in this city. One spilled coffee and one bad meeting won't change that. You left Dallas with a car full of boxes, and you built a whole life from nothing. One bad Tuesday is not the end of your story."

I smiled. It was small, but it was real. "Thanks, Mila."

"Always. Now go close your computer, pet your dog, and have something to eat. A proper meal, not cheese and crackers and celery sticks."

"Yes, Mom." I giggled.

We hung up, and I sat there for a minute, my phone warm in my hand, Cooper still beside me. He shifted, pressing closer, and his tail thumped once against the cushion. Dogs knew things. Cooper knew when I needed weight against my body, when I needed to feel held without being held, and he gave it to me every single time without being asked.

Tomorrow I'd get up and work on new client outreach. I'd have my coffee, walk Cooper, and continue to focus on building my business, and I'd stay as far away from my neighbor as humanly possible.

CHAPTER FIVE

MARSHALL

The horn sounded and twenty thousand people lost their minds the moment I scored my first NHL goal, eight minutes into the second period. It was my first home game with the Boston Enforcers, and we were up three to one entering the third period against Tampa Bay.

My first goal was a wrist shot from the left circle that found the back of the net so fast I didn't even see it go in. Jeremy had fought for the puck behind the net, taken a hit from their defenseman and fed the puck to me. I'd caught it on my tape, let my hands do what they'd done ten thousand times in practice, and the puck was gone. I heard it before I saw it. The sound of vulcanized rubber hitting twine, that specific thwack that differed from hitting the post or the boards or the goalie's pad.

Jeremy crashed into me, helmet first, his gloves grabbing my jersey, screaming something I couldn't make out over the noise of the crowd. Ashford was there a second later, his stick banging against my shin guards. Ryan was standing in the crease sixty feet away, tapping his stick on the ice. The bench was up, every guy standing, sticks pounding the boards in a rhythm that felt like a heartbeat.

My legs went numb from the rush. I had scored hundreds of goals in my life. But this differed from college, or the juniors, and from pickup games on frozen ponds when I was younger. This was crazy. Twenty thousand people who didn't even know my name an hour ago screaming because of a play I'd made. The adrenaline was real. Back home, my mom was probably crying, and my dad was surely standing in front of the television with his arms crossed and his jaw tight, feeling proud but not knowing how to show it. I'd spent my entire life working toward this, and it was happening. The sound of the crowd was so loud I could feel it replacing every doubt I'd ever had.

I skated back to the bench and sat down, and Coach Briggs put his hand on my shoulder. He said nothing. He squeezed once and let go.

I'd taken two hits, one from Tampa's checking line along the boards near the end of the second period, and another from their captain in the neutral zone during the third. The second one compressed my chest and sent a shock through my spine that made my vision blur for half a second. I kept skating; this was hockey. You took the hits, and you kept skating, and you didn't think about the bruises until you were in the shower and the hot water found them.

After the final buzzer, we headed to the locker room. The energy in there was unlike anything I'd ever felt. Guys slapping helmets, tossing tape, and then the commentary on the plays of the game. All that familiar post-game energy I loved to get lost in.

Coach Briggs came through and said three sentences to all of us: "Good game. Don't get comfortable. Thursday's going to be harder."

I sat in my stall and peeled off my gear piece by piece. Shin guards first, then shoulder pads, the compression shirt that was soaked through and stuck to my chest like a second skin. My ribs were sore on the left side where I'd taken that second hit, and my right knee had a dull, low-grade ache that told me I'd been cutting hard all night. Nothing that needed attention, my body reminding me of movements I needed to fix.

The door opened to the locker room and in walked George McKay, our equipment manager. He looked my way and tossed a black velvet bag my way.

"What's this?" I questioned.

"That is the puck you scored your first NHL goal with."

I smiled and looked down at the bag. Attached to the bag was a white card with my name, the date and the details of the goal. Marshall Hayes. First NHL goal. October 2. BOS vs. TBL.

I held it in my hand for a second, then I tucked it into my bag.

"Way to go rookie. What are you going to do with that?" Jeremy asked.

"I think I'll send it home to my parents. My dad can put it on the shelf in his office next to the photo of me at the draft."

"Nice, good call. That is where mine went too," Jeremy added.

"Party at my place tonight," I said, loud enough for the room to hear. The words came out before I could stop them, but the second they were out, they felt right. "Everyone's invited. Food, drinks, the whole thing."

Jeremy turned and looked at me from across the room. "The rookie's hosting? Bold move, Hayes."