Chapter fifteen #2
The building erupted. My hands were still gripping the boards hard enough as that was the only thing stopping me reaching for Dante. I wanted to pull him close, to cradle him too me, and I didn’t give a fuck that everyone would see.
If it had just been my own career right that second I wouldn’t care. I was done watching him get hurt, and as soon as this game was over I was going to tell him.
Everything.
Not about hockey, not about training schedules or shot mechanics or any of the professional things I’d been hiding behind for too many weeks.
About the fact that seeing him with Odin Clark had made me realize what an absolute coward I’d been.
About the fact that keeping him at arm’s length to protect him was actually just me protecting myself from the possibility of losing another mate.
About the fact that watching him get cross-checked into the boards had crystallized something I’d been avoiding since the moment he’d stepped onto my ice: I couldn’t keep doing this.
The distance, the professional boundaries, the careful control—it was killing me, and it wasn’t actually protecting either of us.
Because he was mine. I loved him and I was going to tell him.
I allowed myself one moment of satisfaction before refocusing. One goal down with a period and a half to play. We could do this.
I glanced at Dante. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, watching the celebration on the ice with an intensity that told me he wanted to be out there. Cinder was beside him, asking quiet questions.
The second period ended 3-2 Chicago. We’d clawed back one goal, but we needed two more, and I was running out of bodies. Max was in the press box, probably losing his mind watching this. Julian was at home under concussion protocol. And Dante—
I needed to talk to Dante.
But that conversation would have to wait until after we won this game.
Second intermission was quick. I kept the message simple—keep pressing, keep shooting, trust each other. Dante was cleared to play, though I could see him moving more carefully than he had been.
“Russo,” I called as the team started filing back out. He turned, and I gestured him over. “How are you really feeling?”
“I can play, Coach.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “My back’s sore. But I’ve played through worse.”
I knew he had. I’d watched the footage from Chicago, seen the hits Antoine had let happen, the way Dante had learned to protect himself because no one else would. I gazed at him, trying to tell him everything without the words.
“You’re starting the third period on the first line,” I said. “And I want you shooting. That move we worked on—if you get the chance, use it.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or determination. “Yes, Coach.” And heaven help me, but I wanted to hear my name on his lips.
The third period started, and I put Cole, Keegan, Dante, Sorin, and Morozov on the ice. Taz in net, playing like a man possessed. Ash ready to swap out.
Chicago tried to sit on their lead, play defensive, kill the clock. We threw everything at them. Shots from the point, deflections, scrambles in front of the net that had their goalie flailing.
Ten minutes left. Eight. Six.
Then Dante did exactly what I’d told him to do.
He picked up the puck at the blue line, cut across the slot with that perfect footwork we’d drilled.
His hips stayed closed until the last possible second, then snapped open just as he released.
The shot came off his backhand with a snap that made every coach in the building appreciate the mechanics involved.
Bar down. Top corner. The goalie never moved.
“GOAL!” The announcer’s voice cracked with excitement. “Dante Russo! What a shot! What a moment!”
“You can see the confidence in his game now” the color analyst added. “This is a different player than we saw three months ago.”
The building exploded. Dante turned toward our bench, his arms up, his face split in a grin that made my chest tight. Cole got to him first, then the rest of the line, piling on in celebration.
3-3. We’d tied it.
“Beautiful goal by the former Chicago player,” the announcer continued as play resumed. “You have to think that feels particularly sweet, scoring against the team that traded you.”
I didn’t care about Chicago’s feelings. I cared about the fact that we had four minutes left to win this game, or we were going to overtime in a building that was absolutely electric.
Four minutes became three. Three became two. Both teams were exhausted, skating on fumes and adrenaline. Chicago nearly scored on a breakaway that Taz stopped with a save that had no business working. We nearly scored when Cole hit the post on a one-timer that rang through the entire arena.
The buzzer sounded. 3-3. Overtime.
I gathered the team during the break. “Sudden death. First goal wins. We’ve been the better team for the last thirty minutes—we’re going to finish this.”
The overtime period was chaos. Back and forth, both teams getting chances, neither able to finish. My heart was hammering against my ribs in a way that had nothing to do with coaching and everything to do with watching Dante skate shift after shift.
Five minutes into overtime, I saw it developing.
Cole carried the puck through the neutral zone, drawing defenders.
Keegan was streaking down the far wing. And Dante—Dante was cutting across the slot with that perfect footwork, his stick positioned exactly right, and I knew what was coming before it happened.
Cole’s pass hit Dante’s tape. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second-guess. Just snapped his hips open and released in one fluid motion.
The puck went bar down, far side. The goalie had no chance.
The red light came on. The goal horn sounded.
And the building lost its collective mind.
I stood there frozen for a moment, watching Dante get mobbed by his teammates, watching him disappear under a pile of celebrating Dragons, and something in my chest cracked wide open.
He’d done it. He’d scored the game-winning goal in overtime against his former team. Against Antoine. Against everyone who’d told him he wasn’t good enough.
The team cleared the ice eventually, heading for the locker room in various states of euphoria. I followed more slowly, my mind already racing through what I needed to say, how I was going to say it, to be honest after weeks of carefully constructed distance.
The locker room was chaos—players celebrating, music blaring, joy that came from winning when you’d been down.
I let them have their moment, standing near the door and watching Dante accept congratulations from his teammates with that smile that made him look younger than twenty-three.
I waited until most of the team had filtered out, giving them space to celebrate while I dealt with the post-game responsibilities—media availability, checking injury reports, coordinating with the equipment staff about tomorrow’s travel schedule.
All the administrative tasks that came with coaching, even when what I actually wanted to do was corner Dante and tell him what I felt.
That he was the air that I breathed.
By the time I made it back to the locker room, it was nearly empty. Just a few stragglers finishing up, and Dante sitting in front of his stall, still in his equipment, his head tipped back against the wall with his eyes closed.
“Dante,” I said, and he opened his eyes, turning to look at me. “Hell of a game.”
“Thanks, Coach.” His smile was tired but genuine. “Felt good to contribute.”
“You did more than contribute.” I moved closer, aware that we were essentially alone now, aware that this was my chance. “Listen, I was wondering if you needed a ride home. We should talk about—”
“There he is!” A voice cut through from the corridor, and suddenly the doorway was filled with reporters, cameras, microphones, the whole circus that came with being the game’s hero. “Russo, Coach, can we get a few minutes?”
I watched his expression shift from surprise to resignation.
This was part of it—the media attention, the spotlight, especially after scoring the game-winner against your former team.
He couldn’t avoid it, and I couldn’t pull rank to protect him without making it obvious that I was treating him differently than any other player.
They mobbed Dante then turned their attention on me, and by the time I got away, Dante was heading down the corridor.
I grabbed my jacket and followed, only to be waylaid by the GM.
I rushed through agreeing it had been a great game, even though in my head I was already planning what I was going to say to Dante.
How I’d explain that I’d been wrong, that distance hadn’t protected either of us, that seeing him with Odin had made me realize—
I stopped dead when I got to the reserved lot.
Dante was standing by a car, his bag slung over his shoulder, talking to someone through the driver’s window. As I watched, he opened the passenger door and climbed in.
The car pulled forward slightly, passing under one of the overhead lights, and I got a clear view of the driver.
Odin Clark.
Odin fucking Clark had picked Dante up from the arena. Had been waiting for him in the parking lot while I’d been answering stupid-ass questions that didn’t matter.
I stood there watching the taillights disappear, my hands clenched into fists at my sides, my dragon howling with fury.
I rushed to my truck already knowing I was going to follow them.