THE WEATHER WAS TURNING warmer, and flowers were beginning to sprout, which could only mean one thing.
Playoffs.
The entire season boiled down to the next couple of months. Sixteen teams would qualify—eight from each conference—but there would only be one champion.
Winning it all required sixteen hard-fought wins over the course of four consecutive best-of-seven series. It was a marathon, not a sprint, stretching from mid-April through early June.
Earning the top spot in our conference guaranteed the Comets home-ice advantage through the Conference Finals, if we made it that far. It also gave us the easiest opponent in the Eastern Conference—the Philadelphia Rebels
—for the first round.
Not that there was any such thing as “easy” when it came to the playoffs.
Each team entering the two-month-long gauntlet laid before us knew that any team could win it all. Anything could happen when you played the same team multiple times in a row. Momentum swings were sometimes more precious than goals. A team could be in the hole two games, then rally back to win the next three and win a series.
Often, it boiled down to which team sustained the least injuries and was the hungriest.
My favorite part of this year’s playoff run—which could very well be my last—was the longer stretches on the road in one place. Too many times, my adrenaline would be through the roof after an intense away game win, and I couldn’t burn it off the way I wanted to with Hannah as we were stuck flying home or to our next location on an extended trip. Now, we played two games in a row in the same city early in a series, and there was no more powerful motivator to win than knowing she’d be ready and waiting in my room when I got back.
Knocking off Philly in five games, we got a short break before squaring off in round two against the Indy Speed. It seemed like every year we clashed with them in our quest to win it all. Being divisional rivals meant we played often, and knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses as well as our own. They’d added some new blood this year, and if we could make it past them, I was sure we could get to the Championship.
We needed to win this series.
Plus, the image of Maddox’s hand up Hannah’s skirt was permanently burned into my brain. When we took them down in Game 3 in Indianapolis, I made sure to remind Hannah who she belonged to.
It wasn’t Maddox or any other man. It was me.
Coming down to breakfast the following day, leaving Hannah asleep in my bed, I took up my usual seat between Jaxon and Benji. Digging into my plate of eggs and bacon, I glanced at Benji, who had dark circles under his eyes.
“Stay out too late partying after the win last night?” I teased.
His storm-gray eyes shot me a glare. “No, I shared a wall with someone with a particularly vocal bed partner and couldn’t fall asleep with all the noise.”
Cringing, knowing he meant me, I gave him a pat on the back. “Sorry about that, man.”
“I could have sworn you were killing her in there the way she was screaming. How many blue pills did you have to take to last that long?”
Biting back a smile, I replied, “You should be so lucky when you’re my age. Everything’s still in perfect working order.”
“Whatever,” he grumbled. “I’m going to have a word with Hannah to make sure we never have rooms next to each other again.”
Jaxon began choking on his food. Reaching to my left, I gave him a firm smack on the back to dislodge whatever had gotten caught in his windpipe.
“Chew your food, buddy.”
Clearing his throat several times, Jaxon shot me a glare.
Yeah, yeah. I know.
Benji mused, “You know, there was something familiar about the way she was screaming your name.”
Water flew out of Jaxon’s mouth in response.
Jesus, he had zero chill. His over-the-top reactions were going to get me in more trouble than whatever Benji heard last night through the wall.
Widening my eyes at him, I worked to keep my voice calm. “You’re struggling today, man. I’ve seen Charlie make less of a mess while eating.”
Benji remained utterly oblivious. “Was she a bunny you hit up the last time we were here? I know I’ve heard that voice before.”
Nodding, I took another bite of my eggs. “Yeah.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie. Hannah and I had fucked the last time the team came to Indy, but she wasn’t a bunny. I was the first player she’d ever slept with, and if I had my way, I would be the last.
I felt, rather than saw, my shirt collar being tugged to the side. Jumping back, I saw shock on Benji’s face as he reached out again to get a better look at my neck where it met my shoulder.
“Jesus, are those bite marks? Are you fucking women or mountain lions?” Benji asked, his tone a mix of shock and awe.
Shrugging my shoulders, I brushed his hand away. “Can’t help it if they get a little rough.”
Standing, Benji grabbed his empty plate, shaking his head as he walked away. “A pierced dick will make girls do crazy shit.”
When I was sure he was out of earshot, I glanced around to ensure we wouldn’t be overheard before leaning close to Jaxon’s ear. “You need to get a fucking grip.”
Scowling at me, he retorted, “Oh, I need to get a grip?”
“Yeah, you do. You were this close to giving me away to Benji.” I held my thumb and index finger a millimeter apart. “He’s got the biggest mouth on the team. Thanks to him, everyone is going to think I’m a legend after last night.” Smirking, I added, “I kind of am.”
“Do you think this is funny?” Jaxon was a rule follower. It was a miracle he’d ever slept with Natalie in the first place.
Speaking of Natalie . . . “If you’re this jumpy over my situation, how the hell did you keep Charlie a secret for as long as you did?”
The hand he rested on the table curled into a fist. I knew bringing up his wife and daughter would set him off.
“That was different,” he sneered. “If you must know, Natalie practically barricaded the door, hiding herself away from the world. No one was ever going to find out. You and Hannah are walking a very dangerous line. Why can’t you go back to her room?”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t work logistically. She leaves the arena before we do and can slip into my room with no one from the team around to see her. If I go to her room, it’s a much greater risk.”
Letting out a heavy sigh, Jaxon closed his eyes. “Everyone else here manages without their wife, girlfriend, whatever, while on the road. The season’s almost over, with only a handful of away games left. Can’t you two control yourselves?”
I knew that Jaxon was only looking out for me as his friend. But staying away from Hannah? It was impossible. She was so far under my skin she’d become a part of me.
Before I could stop myself, I replied, “We could, but we aren’t going to.”
Rolling his eyes, Jaxon stood, leaving me at the table alone. He’d get over it. Like he said, the season was almost over, and then we would bring our relationship out in the open.
We’d made it this far. What was another month or so?
 |
We knew getting past the Speed would be tough. So, it was no surprise that we found ourselves facing down a Game 7, winner-take-all scenario. Thankfully, we had the home-ice advantage, and the game would take place in Hartford with the Comets faithful screaming down the house.
That, and my good luck charm’s voice centering me right before puck drop.
Smiling to myself as I laced up my skates, I thought about Hannah. She was never far from my mind, but something changed when we were in LA. I’d felt a shift in our relationship—a shift in her. For a second, I thought perhaps it was that we were almost caught in the most compromising of positions by her dad, but I quickly shook that off. Hannah wanted to go
public; she just didn’t want to be a distraction to the team—we shared that stance.
Hannah wasn’t exactly subtle—I could tell she was fishing for something from me. The way she phrased her statements and made indirect comments, trying to get a response. It took me a minute, but I finally figured it out.
She was trying to get me to admit my feelings for her.
I didn’t know the protocol of when to say it, and it was clear she didn’t, either. We were a couple of relationship virgins stumbling our way through this thing. Was it supposed to be a grand gesture? Or was it better to drop it casually while doing something mundane? I knew one thing: blurting it out in the middle of sex was a giant no-no.
There were hints that Hannah reciprocated my feelings of love. It was in the little things, like when she had a protein shake waiting for me when I got home from practice or when she earmarked sections of film on our opponents to showcase their weaknesses for me to exploit.
Then, there was the most obvious sign of them all. At the start of the playoffs, Hannah’s jersey rotation ceased, and she began to wear only my jersey while singing the anthem at home. We’d had three home games during our first series, and tonight would mark the fourth during our series against the Speed.
For seven games now, she’d had my name on her back, silently declaring to the world that she was mine.
No one had said a word. Maybe they hadn’t noticed. That was the best- case scenario, but seeing her willingly branded by my name spiked my competitive drive to a greater height.
Every player’s dream was to one day hold that giant silver championship trophy over his head and then for his girl to jump into his arms as they celebrated on the ice. I wanted to feel Hannah clinging to my body as we reached the pinnacle of professional hockey. It would be as much a triumph for her as for me.
Tonight was do-or-die—we either won or the season was over.
Regardless of the outcome, after the game, I was going to tell Hannah that I loved her.
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In a back-and-forth series that had been an all-out battle, of course, we would need overtime to determine not only the winner of the game but that of the series.
Tied 2-2 at the end of regulation, both teams headed to their respective locker rooms with the heavy knowledge that the next goal won.
For one team, there would be no tomorrow.
Filing into the locker room, we dropped onto the benches at our assigned stalls, waiting for Coach’s remarks. I could only imagine how helpless it felt to stand on the bench, knowing the outcome was ultimately up to your players.
Coach walked into the room in his game-day suit and looked each man in the eye before speaking. “I didn’t come in here to state the obvious. You’ve all been in elimination games before—on the winning and losing sides. Right now, all I want you to focus on is the next shift. Thinking too far ahead will only get us in trouble. So, execute your matchups, keep your heads up, and make smart decisions. There is no room for error. We have a special group in this room, but we all know the more deserving team doesn’t always win. I don’t know about you boys, but I’d like to wake up tomorrow and plan for our next opponent, so go out there and grind your hearts out. That’s all I can ask of you.”
The team clapped enthusiastically, everyone getting hyped up by Coach’s remarks.
An overtime Game 7 was the ultimate pressure cooker, and everyone felt it. The forwards had the burden of scoring the game-winning goal. The defensemen were stressed out, trying to ensure no one on the opposing team got a quality scoring chance. And the goalie . . . l didn’t envy Reed’s job one bit today. Everyone would look at him if a puck managed to squeeze past him tonight, no matter who was truly at fault for the breakdown that led to the goal.
The twenty minutes of intermission was over in the blink of an eye, and we lined up to hit the ice—hopefully, not for the last time this season.
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Overtime stretched on for longer than anyone could have hoped. Five minutes went by.
Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes.
Panic set in that this might not be settled with a single overtime period. This could go on all night until a winner was decided. No matter who won after a marathon overtime game, they would be trashed going into the Conference Finals—the physical toll would carry over.
As the team’s leading defenseman, I took on more minutes than the rest and was running out of steam.
My legs became heavy, feeling loaded down by lead weights. I painfully forced myself to put one skate in front of the other. My capacity to think beyond simply continuing to move was diminishing quickly. Soon, I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to keep a sharp eye on the movements of the Speed players.
We just needed one lucky break. And without warning, we got it.
Jaxon’s legs were taken out from beneath him by none other than Maddox Sterling, and the ref threw his hand up to signal a penalty. Maybe it was a little bit of karma for daring to put his hands on my girl, but my old college teammate was headed to the penalty box, and we were up a man.
There was no option. We had to cash in on this power play and end this game.
Hannah’s voice rang out clearly in my head from our first film session together.
Less passing, more shooting. Keep. It. Simple.
Pulling the top power-play unit in for a quick huddle, I uttered to them, “Pepper the fucking goalie. Let’s make this one count.”
They nodded in agreement with my game plan, and we lined up for Jaxon to take the face-off in our offensive zone. Winning it back to me, I skated the length of the blue line, looking for a chance. Seeing three men screening the goalie, I pulled my stick back to the height of my shoulder and slapped the puck as hard as I could. It flew through the air at breakneck speed but didn’t make it past the netminder.
There was a flurry of motion in front of the net as my teammates tried to slam it across the goal line, where it fell after my slapshot. Before I knew it, the puck was poked free and shot up the boards right back onto my stick.
With so many bodies down low, there was a surplus of open ice.
Knowing Hannah would wring my neck but running on pure adrenaline, I skated forward. Jaxon noticed my intentions and fell back to play defense in my stead. There was a tiny spot of the net open. I wasn’t as skilled at picking corners as the forwards, but if I missed, there were enough of my teammates there to hopefully clean it up for me and get the game-winner. I didn’t care who scored so long as it was us.
I felt my stick bend as I threw my weight into flicking my wrist and shooting the puck.
Time slowed down, and I watched it sail through the air, finding that tiny open pocket of netting not covered by the goalie. My arms were over my head in celebration the second I saw the white string weave moving to cradle the puck—muscle memory was funny like that.
We did it!
Skating to where several of my teammates were gathered in front of the net to celebrate with them, I was caught off-guard by the sharp two-handed slam of a stick against my shoulder blades from behind. Thrown off balance, my body lurched forward, head-first on a collision course with the boards surrounding the ice surface. There was no way to stop or slow my trajectory, and I braced for impact.
Then my world went black.
