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“Damn, that was beautiful,” Frankie says.
I smile her way as we settle back into our seats. “They work really well together.”
“They always have. But Seb, tonight, there’s a fire under him I haven’t seen before.”
“I think he’s feeling better,” I tell her. “Since he got his celiac diagnosis and he’s eating right, not drinking as much. He’s healed up and nourished himself. That makes a big difference.”
Frankie rubs a hand across her mouth, then glances my way. “I think that’s certainly part of it, yes.”
“What else is?”
Suddenly, there’s a ruckus out in the stands, making me peer toward the ice. My stomach drops.
One of Anaheim’s players is swinging at Sebastian, who’s…doing much less than I’d like to defend himself. I’ve seen Sebastian brawl before. It’s ugly—for the other person. He’s as fast with his hands as he is on the ice. But tonight, there’s no sign of that man.
Anaheim’s player winds back again and tries to nail Sebastian in the side of the head. Thankfully Sebastian slips it deftly, right as the ref skates in and tugs away Anaheim’s player, sending him straight to the box.
“Well,” Frankie muses, sitting back with her arms folded across her chest. Her eyebrows are nearly up to her hairline. “First time for everything.”
“What do you mean?”
She lifts a hand Sebastian’s way. “Seb didn’t fight back. I’ve never seen him do that before.”
Sebastian spins and skates in a wide half circle, brow furrowed, exhaling heavily.
My stomach knots. “Is he okay?”
Frankie scowls at the Anaheim player slipping into the penalty box, then glances back Sebastian’s way. “Yeah, he’s fine. He’s got a hard head.”
“That’s for sure,” I mutter.
Coming full circle, Sebastian skates right up to where he was fouled, leaning down with his stick, ready for the faceoff.
Anaheim’s player skates up, leans in too, and the puck’s dropped. Sebastian wins it, pivots on one foot, and smacks the ever-loving hell out of it, right into the net. The buzzer sounds, the light turns red, and then, gloriously, the next buzzer sounds, heralding the end of regulation play. The game’s over. The Kings won.
The whole place goes wild.
After I finally unearth myself from the pile of my family, who’s jumping and hugging, celebrating like a bunch of goofballs, some sixth sense makes me turn back toward the ice, searching it.
Sebastian glides across its surface, popping his mouthguard out, stick down at his side, helmet off, clutched in his glove. He’s watching the box, a small, lopsided grin tugging up one corner of his mouth. Our eyes meet, and I smile so wide my cheeks hurt.
His smile widens, too, revealing those ridiculously deep, long dimples, a flash of white teeth. I raise my hands and mime clapping. His smile opens to a laugh that shakes his chest as he skates closer, then stops and takes a theatrical bow.
I snort a laugh.
One of the Kings’ players swings by and nudges him on the shoulder, making Sebastian turn, before he glances back and finds my eyes. He nods toward where the team exits. He’s asking me to meet him where the players let out.
I nod.
When I tear my gaze away, my entire family is staring at me, their faces a blend of curious and amused.
“What?” I pick up my coat, a new dark-green wool number that, after some internet sleuthing, I found online in a tall. For once, I have a nice coat that doesn’t stop halfway down my forearms. “Never seen two friends share a moment in the wake of a badass victory?”
Everyone goes back to picking up their things, talking amongst themselves.
Mom’s smiling as she turns toward Dad and says, “Well. I think this calls for some celebratory dessert and drinks at the house, don’t you?”
Sebastian’s flushed and glowing as he walks out with Ren, fresh off a postgame interview that Frankie is already meticulously watching online, tucked in a corner away from us, mumbling to herself.
