Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Three periods. He had to get through three periods of hockey before he could put his hands on Dawson again, and his body was already counting down the minutes.
The puck dropped. First shift, Leo cut inside the defenseman and drove the net so hard the goalie had to sprawl.
Carter fired the rebound wide. Didn’t matter.
Leo was back at the bench before the whistle died, legs shaking, hands too tight on his stick.
Sixty minutes between him and that parking lot.
He missed a pass on his second stride—overcooking a one-touch that should’ve been simple. Novo had to reach back for it. Carter dug the puck out of the corner. Leo wasn’t distracted. He was running too hot, too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it except the ice.
“Easy, V.” Jonesy, on the bench beside him, not looking over. “You’re running around out there like someone lit your ass on fire.”
“I had two shots on goal.”
“You also missed a tape-to-tape pass from six feet. Breathe.”
Leo chewed his mouthguard and watched the ice.
The other team’s center won a draw, and their winger carried it wide.
Sully stepped up and erased him into the boards, and Leo watched the puck squirt free and thought about Dawson’s hand on the glass, his own glove pressed against it, and the nod.
We’ll talk after. Dawson’s seats were just a few rows up from their bench.
Leo could feel him in the way his focus kept trying to drift sideways.
His next shift was better. He won a board battle in the corner, dug the puck out with his skate, kicked it to his stick, and fed Carter cutting through the slot.
Carter’s shot went wide, but the forecheck was relentless—Leo and Novo cycling, Carter driving the net, the three of them moving in patterns they’d spent three months building and were only now starting to trust.
The first period ended scoreless. Leo had four shots on goal, two hits, and had drawn a penalty that led to a power play the Stags couldn’t convert.
He sat in the locker room between periods with his elbows on his knees and his head up, and tried to keep his head in the game instead what came after.
He was thinking about the second period.
About what the ice felt like when he was moving this fast.
Jonesy dropped into the spot next to him, helmet off, hair plastered flat, the red crease across his forehead from the padding. He leaned back and let out a long breath.
“So,” Jonesy said. “Sign guy.”
“Not now, Jones.”
“That’s Mercer, right? The mechanic?” Jonesy’s eyebrows were up. “How the hell did you land Mercer? That guy doesn’t even talk to people.”
“He talks to me.”
“Yeah, well, he’s still out of your league.”
Leo looked at him. Jonesy was grinning, but underneath it, his eyes were steady. Checking in.
“He’s a good guy,” Leo said.
“He better be. And he’d better not fuck up again. I know where he works.”
Carter appeared on Leo’s other side. He’d retaped his stick and was pressing the blade against the floor, testing the flex. He didn’t sit down.
“You’re playing well,” Carter said. “Keep it simple. Don’t try to win the game yourself.”
“Copy.”
“And tell your guy nice sign.”
Carter walked away to talk to Deluca about the power play. Your guy. He’d said it the way he’d say your line or your shift. Just a fact.
Leo had a feeling it was going to be a long time before he lived down Dawson’s apology. The guys would rib him relentlessly about how sweet it was, but Leo didn’t care. It was sweet, and he knew how far out of his comfort zone Dawson had stretched to show up like that.
The second period started, and Leo played the best hockey of his season.
He won the first draw by tying up the other center’s stick and letting Novo sweep the puck back to Riggs at the point.
Riggs walked the blue line and threw it low into traffic.
Leo fought through a cross-check in front of the net, got his stick on the rebound, and the goalie kicked it away, but Carter was there, crashing the net from the weak side, and he buried it.
One to zero Stags. The bench exploded. Leo jumped into Carter, and Carter grabbed the back of his helmet and shook him once, hard.
The other team tied it midway through the second on a deflection Ford had no chance on. Didn’t matter. Leo drew a penalty on a hard forecheck and nearly scored on the power play—crossbar, the crowd groaned, Leo slammed his stick against his thigh. Close. Getting closer.
The second period ended tied with one each. Leo had been on the ice for the Stags’ goal, drawn another penalty, and finished with six hits.
Carter’s line went out with seven minutes left in the third period.
The face-off was in the offensive zone. Carter won the draw back to Riggs, who walked the blue line and threw it low.
Traffic in front. Leo lost his man behind the net and came out the other side, and the puck was on Novo’s stick at the half wall.
Leo was open, stick on the ice, and he didn’t call for it because he didn’t need to.
Three months of building a rapport with these men was starting to pay off. Novo knew where Leo was at all times.
The pass came tape-to-tape. Leo caught it in stride and had one second, the goalie committing left, and he went high glove-side with a wrist shot that left his stick so clean he barely felt it.
The net rippled. The horn blared. Ten thousand people lost their minds.
Leo threw his arms up and screamed, the sound lost in the noise, and Carter got there first, slamming into him from behind, then Novo, then Jonesy, vaulting over the boards for no reason other than Jonesy. Leo was buried in blue jerseys and sweat, and Novo’s visor dug into his shoulder.
He came up grinning so wide his mouthguard dug into his gums. Tapped his chest with his glove — two taps over the heart, same as always — and the arena was deafening.
His eyes burned. He didn’t look at the glass.
There was no point. Dawson was watching, and that was the only person in the arena who mattered.
They won three to one. Leo had the go-ahead goal and an assist on Carter’s empty-netter in the final minute. Ford came out of the net for a stick tap with Leo on the way to the tunnel.
The locker room was loud. Jonesy’s terrible music, Riggs on the phone telling his wife that Ella could stay up until he got home, Russ texting his mom. Leo dropped onto his bench and started unlacing his skates when Jonesy’s voice cut through.
“So.” Jonesy leaned against the stall next to Leo’s. “Safe to say you’re not headed out to celebrate with us tonight?” He paused. “You could always bring Mercer with.”
Leo looked up from his skate. Part of him wanted to walk into The Penalty Box with Dawson beside him and let the whole thing be normal, be easy, be what it should’ve been weeks ago.
But Leo had been thinking about getting Dawson alone since warm-ups.
“Maybe next time,” Leo said.
Jonesy studied him for a second, then grinned. “Yeah. Next time.”
Riggs, across the room, stopped mid-tape roll. “Hold on. Is that why you’ve been—” He looked at Leo, then at the ceiling, then back at Leo. “How long has this been going on?”
“A while.”
“Huh.” Riggs sat with that for a second. Then nodded. “Good for you, V.”
Carter glanced over from his phone. “Bring him next time. We should meet him properly.”
That was it. Carter went back to his phone. Riggs went back to his tape. The room kept moving.
Leo’s phone buzzed. He reached for it, still half-dressed, pads on the floor around his feet.
Dawson
Ethan’s heading home. Any chance I can get a ride?
Dawson had sent his brother home. That was either the ballsiest move of the night or the dumbest, and Leo was grinning at his phone like an idiot.
Stay where you are. I’m just about done.
He finished stripping his gear. Showered as quick as possible. The hot water hit his shoulders, and he stood under it just long enough to get the game off his skin.
He dressed, grabbed his bag, and headed for the door.
“I’m gonna head out,” Leo said. “I’ll catch you guys tomorrow.”
“Tell Mercer we said hi,” Jonesy called after him.
Leo walked out of the locker room and down the tunnel toward the parking lot exit. The arena was quiet now, lights half-dimmed, a janitor pushing a trash bin down the concourse.
He pushed through the exit doors, and the cold hit him.
Dawson was standing near the main entrance, hands in the hoodie pocket, shoulders up around his ears from the cold.
Leo stopped walking. His keys were in his hand, his hair was still wet, and Dawson was right there, ten feet away, in a Stags hoodie. He liked seeing Dawson in his colors. Leo’s eyes burned and his breath hitched, and he had to stand still for a second because his legs had decided they were done.
Dawson turned. Saw him. His whole body loosened—shoulders dropping, hands coming out of the pocket, chin lifting. He took a step toward Leo and then stopped, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to close the gap.
Leo closed it. Three steps, four, and then he was standing in front of Dawson.
Dawson’s hand came up and caught the front of Leo’s jacket and held on, knuckles white, and neither of them said anything for a long beat.
Just stood there, with Dawson gripping his jacket.
Leo’s breath came out uneven in the cold air.
"Hi," Dawson said. His voice was wrecked, and Leo understood exactly what it had cost him to stand in front of a crowd of people, many who knew him, and ask for another chance.
"Hi." Leo covered Dawson's hand with his own. The fingers underneath were cold and still shaking, and he held them still, like he could press his own steadiness into them. Then he leaned in until his forehead rested against Dawson's.
He'd spent every day since the night he’d driven away wanting exactly this and refusing to believe he'd get it.
Now Dawson was here, breathing unevenly against him, and the wanting finally eased into something Leo could stand.
Dawson's free hand found his hip and pulled him in, and Leo stopped caring who might still be around to see.
"I can't believe you came to my game." Leo kissed him, slow, his thumb moving over Dawson's cheekbone. The most closed-off man he'd ever met had just made himself impossible to miss, in front of everyone, for him. "Fuck, I missed you."
Dawson's fingers tightened on his hip. "I'm sorry it took so long."
Leo pulled back far enough to dig his keys out of his pocket and hold them up between them. "Come home with me."
Dawson smiled — the real one, the one Leo only got when every wall was down.
"Yeah," Dawson said. "Okay."
They walked to the car side by side. Dawson’s hand brushed Leo’s between them, and Leo caught it and held on, and Dawson didn’t pull away. Twenty minutes until they’d finally be alone together. Leo wasn’t sure he was going to make it that long without saying something he wasn’t ready to say yet.