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“Yes,” I say.

He laughs. “Whatever it is that’s pushing, it’s doing you good.”

Is that an opener? My chance to tell him what’s really going on with me right now?

No. If Blake knew what was behind it, he wouldn’t have asked in the first place.

“Are the kids coming to the next home game?” I ask instead.

“Yep. We want to take advantage of the afternoon game so they can be there again. But they’re getting bored watching their old dad slide around on the ice.”

“Not just them, old man, not just them,” I mutter, and he gives me a slap on the upper arm.

Laughing, I rub the spot. He’s always so sensitive about his age.

“You’ll be lucky if you’re performing as well as I am when you’re my age,” he retorts.

I nod. “All right, fine.”

He fumbles his headphones out of his pocket. “Unfortunately, Katleen isn’t wrong. My hip isn’t getting any better. But . . . ”

“The Cup,” I finish his sentence.

Blake sighs.

“Hey, you’ve won it before.”

He nods. “Yeah. Many, many years ago. And with a terrible team. I want to win it with you guys. This is my home, you know?”

“I know. I feel the same way.” He doesn’t realize how serious I am. This team means everything to me. Friends, family, support. Even if they don’t really know me. But that’s what I learned from my dad. Hockey and your team come first.

Just like at home. Life with the college team, which he’d coached for as long as I can remember, was all I ever knew. My mom and sister were always second on his list of priorities. Hockey was the only way I could get his attention. Right up until his death. I’m living his dream. And not a single day of his life was he jealous of me. I was his pride and joy. That knowledge runs as deep inside me as my heart. And just as deep as the homophobic slurs he used to spew.

In that regard, hardly anything has changed. The comments in the locker rooms are the same as they were twenty years ago.

Blake nods at me. “I’d say we’d better get this done this year. This is our big chance. There’s no second chance for some things.”

His words echo in my head the whole way back to New York.

When I arrive at my apartment, I can already hear noises coming from the front door.

My sister comes running toward me, singing and dancing. She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me close. “I’ve missed you sooo much.”

“You didn’t,” I retort, and she laughs.

“But I did.”

“How was Chicago?” She sashays back to the kitchen, which resembles a battlefield, to the beat of Bad Bunny blaring from my sound system, which she’s apparently connected her phone to.

“Didn’t you see the game?”

She turns back to me and raises her eyebrows. “Um. No. Should I come up with an excuse?”

Even though I know she hates hockey, her emphatic denial still stings.

She looks me over, turns down the music on her phone, and walks toward me. “Hey, you know this has nothing to do with you.”

“I know. I’m not mad at you.”