Chapter 44 Nico
nico
Buffalo Warriors v. San Jose Pulse
The puck wouldn’t go in. I gripped my beer so hard that foam sloshed over the rim. On the ice, Harpy finally dug the puck away from the boards and snapped it toward the goal. Dog crashed the net, hacking at the rebound as the Pulse’s goalie sprawled.
The crowd surged to its feet as the puck slipped free, then hit the boards. When San Jose cleared the zone, a groan rolled through the arena, heavy enough to rattle the glass in the Warriors’ suite.
I was on my feet, beer forgotten, with one hand gripping the rail. My pulse pounded in my ears. “Come on,” I yelled. “Come on!”
The Warriors’ first line stayed on the ice, and Harpy won the faceoff. Richie grabbed the puck. As Dog pivoted to cover, his stick caught a Pulse forward’s skate.
A whistle shrieked, followed by the ref tugging his arms across the front of his body. My stomach dropped. Hooking. Two-minute minor for Dog, power play for the Pulse.
Dog slammed his stick against the ice, then pushed off toward the box. Pulse fans roared, and somewhere below, fists pounded the glass.
“Fuck!”
Criswell, the Warriors’ coach, sent Pack’s line out for the penalty kill. Holky and Pack were the forwards, with Abdulov and Brody backing them up on D.
There’s Pack. My guy.
The Warriors fell into formation for the faceoff, sticks low and bodies braced. San Jose’s superstar center won the draw, his right wing got the puck, and they streaked into our zone.
Pass. Pass. Shot blocked. Another pass. Shot hit the pipes. The crowd’s roar was a living thing.
The rebound bounced to a Pulse D-man, and Pack chased him away from the goal. No hesitation, no calculation, just Pack. God, I loved him.
The D-man fired at the goal anyway. It deflected off Holky’s skate and—
The ref blew his whistle, and his arm shot straight up. For a moment, there was silence.
Pulse 4. Warriors 3.
The crowd exploded, half joy and half fury, as I stood there unable to move. The end of the second period was a minute away, and I’d never wanted to be on the ice more in my life.
The third passed in a blur. The horn ended the period before the crowd’s roar faded away. Harpy had scored in the last three seconds of play. Tie game, 4–4.
Overtime. The word lodged in my chest like an armed bomb.
I got another beer to keep me sane and wondered what was happening in the Warriors’ locker room.
Around me, people told nervous jokes and made loud predictions.
I went back to my seat and stared at the empty ice as if Pack might skate back out early just to prove he was okay.
Overtime was a giant heart attack. Sudden death was one goal away, and everyone in the arena knew it. We were all on our feet. If I sat, I might jinx Pack somehow.
Three minutes in, he hopped over the boards for his first shift. My heart couldn’t have pounded harder if I’d been on the ice with him. Most of the men on the ice were lagging. Jerseys hung heavier on their shoulders, and even from where I was, it was easy to see the sweat dripping off their faces.
But Pack’s posture was the same as always.
He was locked in: chin tucked, shoulders loose, and eyes sharp.
The puck dropped, and play moved too quickly for my fevered brain.
A frantic scramble along the boards had my heart hammering.
When a San Jose winger fired a slapshot at the goal, everyone in the arena shrieked.
Gabe made an impossible save, and the shrieks faded into a collective gasp.
Unable to remain still, I paced the length of the suite, then stopped and went the other way. Back and forth until I wondered if I’d wear a groove into the carpet. I kept my eyes on the wide-screen TVs hanging on every wall, and each time Pack’s line was on the ice, my chest ached from tension.
He chased a loose puck behind the goal and took a hit that made my stomach clench.
Get up. Come on, get up.
He did. Relief made me dizzy, and I had to brace against the wall to stay upright.
I returned to my seat and sucked in ragged breaths. Both teams were running on fumes, and I pressed my hands against my thighs to keep from gripping the rail again. There was nothing I could do from here but watch.
If the Warriors lost, I’d be the one sitting with Pack afterward. I’d watch him try to hold it together in front of me, and I’d know exactly what it cost him. When the Condors lost three years ago, I’d gone into a funk that lasted half the summer.
The Pulse pushed hard. A shot rang off the crossbar like a gunshot, and I cried out. Behind me, someone swore. One woman laughed hysterically, her reactions obviously confused.
Pack vaulted over the boards again and cut across the ice, stick out, calling for the puck.
Do it, babe. End this.
After a scramble, the puck squirted loose in front of the net. I lost sight of it. Chaos exploded on the ice, with players scattering in different directions and San Jose’s goalie craning his head one way and then another.
Time slowed as Pack raced into the slot and set up in front of the goal. Logan launched a shot that cracked through the arena, but it bounced off a pad and slid toward Pack.
My lungs seized in my chest. Maybe my heart stopped.
He didn’t wind up, just snapped his wrists and shoved the puck forward, threading it through a tiny gap between the goalie’s legs.
Nothing happened. I needed air so badly I got lightheaded.
Then the horn detonated the building.
Like everyone else, I screamed. I leaned over the edge, my vision blurring as the Warriors poured off the bench.
His linemates surrounded Pack a few seconds before the team swallowed them whole.
Helmets, gloves, and sticks flew into the air and rained onto the ice.
The Warriors crushed Pack under a pile of bodies and joy.
Tears streamed down my face as I locked into a hug with the woman next to me. We jumped up and down like maniacs, still screaming. I couldn’t have been happier if I’d scored that goal.
The woman and I let go as the pile of men on the ice began pulling apart. There he was, my man, grinning ear to ear. He was a champion. Fuck, he’d scored the game-winning goal after one of the hardest-fought series I could remember.
A wave of emotion had me teetering. I was overwhelmed with the bone-deep certainty that Pack was my person, my life, and my future.
He looked up at the suite and pointed at me. I pressed my fist to my mouth, laughing and sobbing at the same time. Finally, I pointed back, and he returned to his celebration.
I shouldn’t have been allowed back there, but God help anyone who tried to stop me. As it happened, one of the security guards greeted me by name and waved me through.
The hallway outside the locker room smelled like sweat and rubber. Music thudded inside. Men were shouting, and their laughter gave me the best kind of chills. When another security guard nodded at me and opened the door, the sound mushroomed into a tidal wave.
Inside, it was bedlam. Half the Warriors were shirtless, and Dog had climbed onto a bench, waving a towel like a victory flag. Riley and Holky were making the rounds, trading chest bumps with everyone in sight. Beer and champagne arced through the air in wild, celebratory bursts.
Everyone was incandescent with joy. Of course they were. The Cup was theirs for the second time in three years.
For a moment, I hovered at the edge of the room, unsure what to do.
“Rossi!” Riley yelled, crashing into my chest. “Your boy’s the king. He’s around here somewhere.”
He was gone before I could say anything, and Brody was spraying me with champagne.
Holky ran over and held up both fists for a bump. “Nico! Glad you could make it.”
After he moved on, I looked around, trying to see through the mass of bodies filling the room.
Finally, I spotted him. Pack was standing next to his stall, helmet off, hair plastered to his head and curling at his nape.
He must have sensed he was being watched, because he scanned the room until he found me.
The rest of the world disappeared as he ran to me, champagne sloshing out of the bottle in his hand. He dropped it and caught my face between his palms.
“You came.” His voice was rough, but he showed me a blinding grin.
I nodded. “Had to see you. And I didn’t want to miss this.”
He laughed, then leaned his forehead against mine. There was nothing but his sweaty skin, the warmth of his hands, and the heat radiating off him.
“We won!”
“I know,” I said, laughing. “I watched you do it.”
“When I scored that last goal, all I could think was ‘where’s Nix?’”
“Yelling myself hoarse,” I said. “About to blow apart with happiness.”
A roar went up behind us, and someone cranked the music louder. We turned to see Gabe holding the Laurentian over his head.
“Goddamn destiny, boys!” he yelled. “This is here to stay.”
Harpy sprayed more champagne in a wide arc and yelled, “That’s my fucking team!”
Pack looked at me again. His eyes shone, and he was unguarded in a way I’d rarely seen him. “You okay with staying?”
I grinned. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“No way.” He brushed a thumb under my eye. “You’re not going anywhere.”
Logan leaned in over Pack’s shoulder, his smirk a mile wide. “Hey, Rossi. You keeping him?”
Pack laughed. “Pretty sure I’m keeping him.”
“Smart man.” Logan clapped Pack’s shoulder and drifted back into the chaos.
Brody appeared long enough to shove beers into our hands, and then he wandered off, too. Around us, the party continued.
Pack grinned and punched my arm. “I’m going to be unbearable for the next few hours.”
“You earned it.”
“We’re all heading to Revolution Hops after the presser. You’re coming.”
In a flash, I was as dizzy as I’d been white-knuckling it during the game. He was taking me with him in front of the whole team, the city, and anyone else who happened to be watching.
“Try and stop me,” I said. “Someone’s got to keep you humble.”
While we laughed, the Warriors’ PR guy came over and said the press was threatening to storm the locker room if Pack didn’t go talk to them.
“Be back,” Pack told me, already backing away. “I love you.”
He hadn’t lowered his voice or hesitated, and it was hard to breathe as I watched him go. Champagne dripped from his hair as the Laurentian Cup gleamed in the background. I was incredibly lucky. The man I’d loved for a decade, the biggest hero in professional hockey, loved me too.