Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
“You’re zoning out, Cap.” Helm’s voice breaks through as he nudges my shoulder.
I didn’t even notice him skating up. He follows my gaze to the stands, probably wondering what the hell I’m staring at.
He drags a gloved hand across his visor. “You expecting someone?”
“Nah. Just tired, I guess.”
He studies me for a beat, then skates off.
I loop around our end of the ice and fire a couple of pucks on net. Routine gives me what it always does: something I can control.
I skate another lap. Then another.
My gaze wanders back to the stands. The two seats are empty.
Sometimes, Tara and Jim will catch a game. My parents, when they’re in town. Once in a blue moon, my sister and her family. But most of the time, my seats sit empty.
I catch Hannah, Ada, and Natalie in Logan and Fox’s seats, and tip my head in greeting. Natalie’s the only one who waves back enthusiastically. Mia’s seat, next to them, is empty. Running late, probably.
I brush it off and take another lap, working on edge work near the blue line.
Then I drop to the ice, running through my usual stretches. I don’t think about the lack of a good luck text from Summer.
Okay, that’s a lie. It’s all I’ve been thinking about since warm-ups started.
It’s the last thing I check before game time. Without it, I’m off. Which is why I can’t get back to the locker room fast enough between warm-ups and puck drop.
There’s got to be a message waiting if we’re going to keep this streak alive.
I shake my head. I’m being ridiculous.
It wouldn’t be the strangest superstition I’ve played into. Hell, I step onto the ice right foot first every game and tap my stick exactly four times. But this is the first one that relies on someone else. And I’m starting to see the problem with that.
Still, I check my phone the second we’re back in the locker room.
Summer:
Good luck tonight!
Fox kicks my skate, and when I look up, he’s smiling like a maniac. “Whatcha looking at, bud?”
I glare at him before tucking my phone back into my cubby.
He plops down next to me even though his stall is across the room. “That Summer?”
“Didn’t we already go over this?” I glare at him.
“Okay, Okay.” He raises his hands. “Maybe you should invite her to a game…”
I want her here. But I haven’t brought it up again since Christmas—she’s busy, and I don’t want her to feel obligated. Don’t want her thinking I don’t get it, that I don’t support her career.
That’s what happened with Vanessa. Just on a larger scale.
It wasn’t a game I asked her to follow me to. It was a whole other country. I asked her to uproot her entire life without thinking about what I was taking from her. By the time I noticed, she was already gone.
“King,” Fox says, all traces of humor gone from his voice.
I blink back into focus, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Sorry. Spaced out.” I’m doing a lot of that today.
“Boys!” Coach’s voice fills the room. “Let’s get out there and make it twelve straight. Play our game. Stick to the system. Let’s go!”
We’re seven minutes in when the ref signals the first TV timeout. I skate to the bench, and Fox slides up next to me.
“So,” he says, casual as anything, “nice night for hockey, huh?”
I grab my water bottle. “What?”
“Just saying. Good crowd tonight.” He tips his head toward the stands, that fucking smirk on his face. “Real good crowd.”
I follow his gaze.
My seats aren’t empty.
Summer.
She’s here. Laughing at something Mia’s saying, auburn hair catching the arena lights as she pulls off my Saints beanie.
And that’s not the only thing of mine she’s wearing.
My jersey. Even in a sold-out crowd, she stands out in the sea of navy and gold, but it’s the number on her sleeve that gets me.
43.
Mine.
Fuck.
“You knew,” I say, not looking away from her.
“Might’ve had some intel.” Fox’s grin is audible.
“Asshole,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it.
The ref’s whistle blows, calling us back onto the ice. I push off, but I’m still watching the stands.
Summer looks at me, smile still wide on her face. I’ve lost count of how many she’s given me since I started collecting them. Still, I want more.
She waves.
My chest tightens, and the corner of my mouth tugs up. I raise my stick in acknowledgment before skating to the face-off circle.
“C’mon, King,” Fox says as he takes his position in front of me. “You’ve got to put on a show for your girl.”
She’s not my girl, is on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I flip him off.
He’s not wrong. I’ve never been more motivated to win a game in my life.
I steal one more look at her before the puck drops. Logan wins the draw and flicks it to me.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, the scoreboard reads six–two. I’ve put up two of those goals, which isn’t exactly a regular occurrence for a defenseman. Might be the first time I’ve managed it in the last five seasons.
The guys are loud in the locker room, the energy riding high off twelve straight wins. Helm’s already talking about making it a baker’s dozen, and Logan’s recapping his assist on my second goal.
I’m pulling off my skates when Coach taps my shoulder. “You’re on post-game media.”
Even though I’m eager to get out of here, doing press after a win is always easier.
I nod and finish changing into my suit, forcing my mind to stay in game mode even though all I want to do is find Summer.
The media room is packed. More reporters than usual, which makes sense, given the streak. I stand behind the podium, and the questions come fast.
“Miles, two goals tonight. What was working for you out there?”
“Team played well. They gave me opportunities, and I capitalized.” Standard answer. Never take all the credit.
“After your injury last season, how does it feel to be playing at this level again?”
And there it is. The injury question.
My jaw tightens. “Feeling good,” I say, then repeat, “The whole team’s playing well.” Give them the same answer enough times, and they usually move on.
A woman in the third row raises her hand. I nod at her.
“Sarah Chen, Sports Illustrated. You’re tied for third in your division, holding a playoff spot by tiebreaker. One loss could drop you out. As captain, how do you handle that pressure?”
I press my tongue to the back of my teeth. The C comes with extra weight. I know that, but still, the reminder grinds on me.
“We take it one game at a time. We know what’s at stake,” I answer.
I know what’s at stake. My credibility. My teammates’ trust in my leadership. Proving I’m not just back from injury, but that I’m better than before.
At twenty-nine, my window is closing. I want to spend what’s left of my career winning—and I want one of those wins to be for the Stanley Cup.
“Last season you were sidelined during the playoff push,” Sarah continues. “Some analysts suggested the team’s collapse was directly related to your absence. Now that you’re back and the team is in playoff position, does that vindicate you? Or does it add extra pressure?”
I keep my expression neutral. “The team didn’t collapse because of one player. This year, we’re healthy, we’re deep, and we’re playing good hockey.”
I know it’s true. One player doesn’t make or break a season. Still, I can’t shake off the thought: What if I let them down again?
A guy in the back raises his hand. “Mike Stevens, Chicago Tribune. You’re playing some of the best hockey of your career. There’s been talk of you being in the Norris Trophy conversation. What’s different this year?”
“Just doing my job,” I say. “Taking it one shift at a time.”
The standard lines come easily, but my mind goes exactly where I don’t want it to.
Summer. Her good luck texts before every game. The way I check my phone, like I’m eighteen again, waiting on my draft call. That four-leaf clover emoji I need to see before I can focus.
I’m not locked in. I’m locked onto her.
Relying on someone else for my focus. My game.
The questions keep coming, but I’m on autopilot, giving generic answers while my brain runs through the same loop: You’ll let them down. You always do.
By the time they let me go, my jaw aches from clenching.
I push through the door toward the locker room, and that’s when I see her.
She’s standing in the hallway near the family room, talking to Mia. Still wearing my jersey. And when she spots me, her whole face lights up.
My heart does that too-big, too-small thing that only happens with her. I take my first real breath since the press’s questions started. The tension in my jaw eases. And the loop in my head goes quiet.
She came. Monday night. Her only day off.
And she traded it for three hours in a cold arena.
It’s just one game. But I already want her at the next one. And the one after that.
I’ve been here before—asking for more than I should.
That’s what I do.
And I’m starting to wonder if I’ve learned anything at all.