The Secret Play (Pucking Daddies #3)

35. Casey

Chapter 35

Casey

T he crowd bellowed as the team skated back onto the ice for the third period, and the energy in the arena reached a fever pitch. After the proposal, people had gone nuts, cheering and shouting for us. Gemma hate signs had miraculously vanished, which I was particularly grateful for. The game was tied, and everything was on the line—not just for the team, but for me.

This wasn’t just about hockey anymore. The proposal intermission had thrown everything into overdrive. The moment her shaky voice had said yes had filled me with a fire I hadn’t felt in years. And seeing Winnie out there on the ice, her grin lighting up the arena, reminded me exactly why I needed to win tonight—this was not for me. It was for them.

It was so odd. I’d never considered myself to be a selfish person before I got together with Gemma, but now, I wondered. Before them, I didn’t know what doing things in someone else’s name was like. I was always worried about my reputation and my good standing. I worked hard in my name, and it was hard work to do so.

But doing things for them made the hard work easy. It strangely lightened the load, knowing failure was no longer an option.

There was no room for distractions now. The team needed me to focus. The city needed a win. It was no longer about me or what I wanted. In one way or another, the final period was for everybody else.

I glanced down the bench at Nico, his helmet on and his expression sharp with determination. He caught my eye and gave me a slight nod. He was ready.

So was I.

By the end of this, he’d be my brother-in-law. If I had the time to think about it, I might have laughed. When we met all those years ago, he was a smirking punk who was good on the ice. Now, he was still those things, but he was even better on the ice. One of the best I’d ever seen. The man was built for power, but he had a good head on his shoulders, too.

He had grown up a lot, too. When we first met, there was no way he would have come to understand me and Gemma. He was a black-and-white thinker, only seeing enemies or friends, good or bad, nothing in between. But over time, he had matured into the man I thought of as a friend.

And soon, I’d call him family.

The puck dropped, and the game's intensity immediately ratcheted up to eleven. The Seattle Razors came out swinging, their defense as tight as ever. Once they’d figured out Lopez was a secret weapon, we had to adjust. I swapped him out for Luke, hoping they wouldn’t notice, but they did.

Of course, they did.

Those bastards had been on our shit all game long. A player swap wouldn’t change that. I had to do something bigger. It was time to call in the Russian squad.

“Ivanov, Petrov, Sokolov?—”

Lopez said, “Coach, Sokolov is Defense.”

I smiled. “Exactly.” I sent them on their way, pulling my other guys out. “Socks, I know you and the other Russians have been working on some stuff. Ready to show the Razors?”

He grinned. “We got you, Coach.” Then he said something in Russian to his compatriots, who nodded once, firmly.

“All right, you guys, listen up. Petrov and Ivanov, I want you to hit a V-formation as soon as you're on the ice. Cut in toward the goalie. Your only focus is reaching the goal until Socks gets you the puck. Socks, this is a lot riding on you. Screw around out there?—”

“Wait, what?”

Each of them looked at me like I had a screw loose.

But I continued, “Act like you have no business being out there on the ice. You’re an offensive defenseman—it’s not hard for them to underestimate you. Look like you’ve never seen a play before, and you’re just there to pester them. Get them to drop their guard, swoop in around their left winger—they’ve been protecting him the whole game—and I’d bet the Cup that they’re about to send the puck his way. Get me that puck. Bring it to your boys, either one, don’t care who. Surprise me.”

“But that puts me in Nico’s zone. He’ll be pissed.”

I shook my head. “Nico knows I put you out there for a reason. I trust him. He trusts me. Go.”

They hauled ass onto the ice, each to their respective posts. Socks played the fool, accidentally cutting into Nico’s path, being a menace to everyone—the Razors and the Fire alike—at that end of the ice.

It would have been great. They wouldn’t have seen it coming. It was something new which would make Matthew happy. Everything was going according to my plan.

If only they hadn’t put in the Bulldozer.

The Bulldozer, AKA Max Martin, had quickly built himself a reputation for fighting. He’d worked his way up from the minors with bruised knuckles and missing a tooth. He had been responsible for two of their opponents ending up in hospitals in the past season alone. He took hits like they were nothing but doled them out like it was his personal mission. The man was huge. Commentators joked that they didn’t know how his skates didn’t bend under his massive form.

Socks had speed and agility on his side, but the Razors’ coach, Derek Pendleton, had paid too much attention and sent the Bulldozer after him. He knew Socks would not be able to take a beating, and he did it anyway. In his own way, Derek was worse than the Bulldozer.

Socks veered left, the Bulldozer went right. Socks spun around Nico to dodge, but the Bulldozer caught up to him with shocking speed, sending him straight into the boards. Nico slapped the puck to Ivanov, who shot it straight past their goalie, bringing us one step closer.

But I felt the crunch of the hit on Socks from across the arena. Sokolov tried to get up and couldn’t. My stomach lurched as I bolted for the ice to check on him, but the medics got there first. His nose was bloodied, but he gave me a thumbs-up. “Bet I bled on his jersey. Messed it all up. That’ll teach him.”

I chuckled. “You’re a lucky son-of-a-bitch, Socks.”

They rolled him onto a stretcher. “Tell that to my arm.”

“I’ll tell it to Pendleton’s ass when I hand it to him.”

They lifted him to cart him out. “Don’t bother. But win this thing for me and for that cute kid of yours.”

“I promise.”

As he held his less injured thumb up to the arena, the crowd cheered while he was taken away. They loved to see a fallen man defiant against the odds, especially when it was one of their own. But their cheers wouldn’t make Ivanov and Petrov any happier about what had happened to their boy. They were too Russian for that, their emotions easy to read on their faces.

We were all pissed off.

That was how the last play of the season began, with anger and to honor our fallen comrade. Our players had given it everything, and I saw the exhaustion setting in. The long season, the pressure of the Cup—it was all catching up to them. And now, there was no more Sokolov to cheer up the two other naturally grumpy Russians.

I leaned forward, gripping the boards as I shouted instructions. “Stay tight! Watch the left wing! Cover the slot!” The guys were listening, their movements sharp and focused, but the Razors still matched us blow for blow. I was grateful the Bulldozer had been penalized and now rotted in the box. We didn’t need more of him out there.

Two minutes after that bullshit he had pulled, they scored.

The arena went quiet for a split second before the Razors’ fans erupted in cheers. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to stay calm as the scoreboard updated. 2-3.

There was still time.

I called for another line change, and the players skated to the bench with sweat dripping from their faces. “Listen up!” I barked, my voice cutting through the noise. “They’re overcommitting on every rush. We can exploit that. Nico, I want you to hold back a beat before you break for the puck. Make them think you’re out of position. Maxwell, you’re going to hang closer to the net. When Nico takes the shot, you clean up the rebound.”

The guys nodded, their eyes locked on me.

“You’ve got this,” I said firmly, meeting each of their gazes. “We’ve fought too hard to let it slip away now. Let’s finish this. For Socks.”

The next shift was pure chaos. The Razors pushed hard, their forwards swarming the zone like sharks. But we held strong, blocking shots and clearing the puck with precision.

And then it happened.

Nico intercepted a pass in the neutral zone, his stick moving like lightning as he broke away. They scrambled to catch him, but he was too fast, too smart.

He held back for a split second, just like I’d told him, and then unleashed a blistering slapshot from the blue line.

The goalie made the save, but the puck rebounded straight to Maxwell, who was exactly where he needed to be.

He buried it.

The arena exploded, the noise so loud it felt like the building was shaking. I pumped my fist in the air, my heart racing as the scoreboard updated. 3-3.

We were back in it.

With only a minute and a half left on the clock, the tension in the arena was palpable. Every second felt like an eternity as the puck moved back and forth across the ice, each team fighting desperately for the winning goal.

I barked instructions from the bench, my voice hoarse. “Keep it tight! Don’t let them set up! Stay on them!”

Nico was everywhere—blocking shots, winning faceoffs, and setting up plays with the kind of skill that made him one of the best. Despite having the most time on the ice, he was in the zone, and the rest of the team fed off his energy. I didn’t know how he did it until I saw Winnie. Jumping up and down, cheering her uncle on, arms flailing like the best little cheerleader anyone could ask for.

That was everything.

The puck was deep in the opposing zone, and Nico battled for it in the corner. He dug it out, spinning away from a defender with a smooth move that left the guy flailing. Nico skated toward the net, his eyes locked on the goalie.

Time stopped as I held my breath. He pulled back his stick and fired a shot so perfect it felt like fate. The puck sailed past the goalie’s glove and into the top corner of the net.

The horn blared, and the arena erupted in a deafening roar.

We did it. We actually did it.

The team swarmed Nico, their cheers and shouts echoing through the arena as the fans went wild. I stood behind the bench, my chest heaving as the adrenaline coursed through me.

As the players celebrated on the ice, my gaze drifted to the stands, where I spotted Gemma and Winnie. Winnie was still jumping up and down, her little hands clapping with glee, and Gemma was smiling through tears, her eyes locked on mine.

I felt a lump rise in my throat as I raised a hand to her, and she grinned, waving back. This wasn’t just a win for the team. This was a win for us—for our family, for the future we were building.

We have the Cup. I have my girls.

Nico skated over, his grin as wide as I’d ever seen it. “Told you we’d pull it off, Coach.”

“You did good.”

“So did you,” he replied, his tone sincere. He threw an arm around my shoulders for a back-pat of a hug. “Glad to know you’re joining the family.”

The knot in my throat threatened to choke me. “Same here.”