CHAPTER 29
ACE
THE PRACTICE RINK is sweet mayhem. Tomorrow's the big day—the charity game that's consumed our lives for the past three weeks—and the energy is electric.
Everyone's flying around the ice, running drills, taking shots, talking shit, and generally acting like we're about to play for the Cup instead of a fundraiser.
Becker skates past wearing one of the custom Santa hats I had made, the oversized red monstrosity perched precariously on top of his helmet. It looks absolutely ridiculous and he's absolutely thriving in it.
"Looking good, Becks!" Groover yells.
"I know!" Becker does a little spin, nearly wipes out, recovers. "Fashion icon!"
Hendrix is perched on top of the penalty box like a tiny feathered emperor surveying his domain. Every time someone misses a shot, he screeches "What the puuuck?" with perfect timing and increasing volume.
Petrov fires wide and Hendrix loses his mind. "WHAT THE PUUUUCK?"
"I know, I know!" Petrov yells back at the bird.
Wall tries a slap shot that goes nowhere near the net. "WHAT THE PUUUUCK?"
"Nobody asked you, Hendrix!"
The rink door opens and Coach Martin walks in, arms full of what looks like printed programs. He's trying to look stern and professional, but I can see the excitement in his eyes. Management told him to stay out of this, but here he is anyway, because that's who Coach is.
"Brought these!" He sets the stack down on the bench. "Mama Paws sent over fresh fliers."
I skate over, picking one up. It's actually really well done—professional layout, color photos of dogs and cats with their names and brief descriptions. There's even a QR code that links to the donation page.
"This is perfect, Coach, thanks."
"Don't thank me. Thank Mama Paws. That woman's a force of nature."
Movement in the stands catches my eye and I look up to see Devon sitting about three rows up, laptop open, phone pressed to his ear, looking every bit the coordinator he's become. He's gesturing with his free hand, clearly in the middle of some important logistical discussion.
He's wearing a Wolves hoodie. My Wolves hoodie, actually, the one I "accidentally" left at his place last week. It's too big on him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and he looks positively adorable.
Washington skates up to the boards directly below Devon and yells, "Hey! Parking situation?"
Devon pulls the phone away from his ear, covering the mouthpiece. "Arena's donating the main lot, overflow lot, and we got street parking permits for three blocks!"
"Perfect!" Washington gives him a thumbs up and skates away.
Devon goes back to his call, typing something rapidly on his laptop, and I just watch him, admiring the way his brow furrows when he's concentrating, and how he chews on his lower lip when he's thinking. He somehow manages to look both stressed and completely in control at the same time.
When did his bossiness become one of my favorite things?
When did I start looking for him in every room I enter, feeling more settled when I know where he is?
"You're staring."
I snap back to reality. Wall's right next to me, leaning on his stick, grinning behind his mask.
"I'm not staring."
"You are. You're staring at your boyfriend like a lovesick puppy. It's making me nauseous."
I flip him off but don't bother denying it. "Jealous?"
"Of what? Your complete inability to be subtle?" He skates away laughing. "Maybe!"
Practice winds down and we're all heading toward the locker room, sweaty and satisfied, when someone's phone goes off.
Then another.
Then everyone's phones start buzzing simultaneously, a chorus of notifications that makes us all stop and check.
I pull mine out and—
SEVERE WEATHER ALERT.
"Guys." Wall's staring at his screen, face serious. "We have a problem."
The locker room goes quiet as we all read the same alert.
Major winter storm system approaching Chicago. Expected arrival: 8 PM tonight. Duration: through tomorrow afternoon. Projected snowfall: 18-24 inches. Blizzard conditions. Wind gusts up to 50 mph. Residents advised to stay indoors.
The words blur together as my brain tries to process what this means.
Tomorrow. Game day.
"So..." Becker tries for his usual humor but it falls flat. "We'll just...shovel?"
Nobody laughs.
The locker room door opens and Devon appears, and I know immediately from his face that it's bad. His skin is pale, eyes wide, and he's gripping his phone so hard I'm surprised it's still in one piece.
"The mayor just declared a weather emergency," he says, voice tight. "They're shutting down the the south side of city."
Chaos erupts. Everyone talking at once, voices overlapping, panic rising.
"Can we postpone?"
"Move it elsewhere?"
"What about next week?"
"After Christmas?"
Washington's already on his phone, fingers flying. "Every indoor venue in Chicago is either booked or closed for the holidays. I'm checking—yeah. Nothing. Not a single rink available."
Mama Paws appears in the doorway behind Devon. She's smiling, but it's fragile, and her eyes are shining with unshed tears. "It's okay, boys," she says, and her voice only wavers slightly. "We tried. That's what’s important."
The weight of those words settles over the room like a physical thing.
All of it. Every late night, every fundraiser, every bar shift, every hour of planning. The roof repairs, the fencing, the medical room upgrades. The adoption applications, the donations, the hope.
Gone.
I feel Devon tense beside me, his whole body going rigid, and I reach for his hand without thinking.
But instead of deflating, he straightens his spine and squares his shoulders, and I watch his expression transform from despair to determination in real-time.
"No," he says. "Nope. Not accepting this."
He starts pacing, moving back and forth in the small space, talking rapidly. "We can't control the weather. But we can control how we respond to it. There has to be a way. There's always a way. We just need to think—"
"Devon." Coach Martin's voice is gentle. "Half the city's shutting down. Even if we held the game, no one would be able to get there. We can’t even get there."
Devon stops pacing, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. "Then we bring the game to them."
Everyone stares at him.
"What?" Becker asks.
"We can't get people to come to us," Devon says, gaining momentum now, his voice getting stronger. "So we go to them. Online. We stream it."
Groover frowns. "Stream what? We can't do that in a blizzard."
"No, but we can—" Devon stops mid-sentence, his eyes going distant like he's working through something. "Actually. Why can't we?"
"Because it's a blizzard," Wall says slowly, like he's explaining to a child.
But Devon's not listening. He spins to face me, eyes bright. "You said you had an outdoor rink at your place when you were a kid, right?"
I blink, confused by the sudden change in direction. "Yeah. My dad used to flood the backyard every winter. But I don't see how—"
"Who here has a backyard?" Devon cuts me off, addressing the room.
Several hands go up.
"Who has a big backyard?"
Fewer hands now.
"Who has a big backyard and lives on the north side?"
Only Washington's hand remains up.
Devon grins, feral and determined. "Perfect."
Washington's eyes widen as understanding dawns. "You want to play hockey in my backyard. During a blizzard."
"I want to play hockey in your backyard during a blizzard and livestream the whole thing." Devon's talking faster now, animated. "We'll make it a spectacle. 'Pucks for Paws: The Blizzard Bowl.' We'll get way more attention this way than a regular charity game. It's perfect!"
There's a beat of complete silence.
Then Petrov starts laughing, head thrown back, the sound echoing off the locker room walls. "This is craziest thing I ever heard." We all turn to look at him. He grins. "I love it."
And just like that, the energy in the room flips completely. The despair evaporates, replaced by something electric.
"I can handle the streaming setup," Becker says immediately. "I've got some equipment. Not professional-grade but it'll work."
"We'll need generators," Jinx adds. "In case the power goes out."
"Portable heaters for the adoption station," Groover says. "We can set it up in Washington's garage."
Mama Paws is crying now, but she's smiling too, and she's looking at Devon like he just performed a miracle. "You boys are absolutely insane."
Devon grins. "Thank you. I try."
Coach Martin pulls out his phone. "We need referees. I'll make some calls."
Washington runs both hands through his hair, looking both stressed and excited. "Leila's going to kill me when I tell her we're hosting this." But he's smiling.
Everyone's smiling.
The team mobilizes immediately, energy crackling, everyone talking over each other as they take on assignments and make plans.
I grab Devon's arm, pulling him aside while chaos erupts around us. "You're a genius."
"I know." But his hands are shaking slightly. "This is either going to be the most epic thing we've ever done or a complete disaster."
"Either way," I say, threading my fingers through his, "we're doing it together."
Something soft crosses his face. "When did you get so smooth?"
"I learned from the best." I pause. "By which I mean you, obviously."
He rolls his eyes. “Obviously,” he says, and leans up to kiss me right there in front of everyone.