Chapter Ten
A llison hadn't meant to eavesdrop. She'd only come to the arena to watch the team practice. But voices carried in the concrete hallway outside the locker room, and her feet stopped moving before her brain could tell them it was wrong to linger here where she didn’t belong.
"—incredible turnaround," a reporter was saying. "Some are calling it the 'Warrant Effect.' Care to comment on how your lucky charm has changed the team's fortunes?"
"We're playing good hockey," Kane's voice replied, professional and measured. "The whole team's clicking."
"Come on, Cap." That was Oliver, teasing. "No shame in using every advantage. Everyone knows we started winning when Allison showed up with that puck and if she’s at our games, we keep winning.."
"The timing was... fortunate."
Something cold settled in Allison's stomach. It wasn't what Kane said—it was the pause before he said it. The careful way he chose his words.
"But is it more than timing?" The reporter pressed. "Sources say you've been spending a lot of time with Michael Warrant's granddaughter. Some suggesting that's not a coincidence, given the upcoming playoffs."
"I don't discuss my personal life." Kane's tone had an edge now. "We're focused on hockey."
"Smart play," another voice chimed in—sounded like a different reporter. "Keep the luck flowing however you can, right? Teams have done crazier things for playoff success."
The cold feeling spread through Allison's chest. She knew she should leave, should pretend she hadn't heard any of this. But her feet still wouldn't move.
"Look," Kane said, "what matters is we're playing our system, supporting each other, making smart decisions. Everything else is just—"
"Superstition?" The first reporter's voice dripped skepticism. "Tell that to your fan base."
"No comment on superstitions or personal relationships." Coach Vicky's voice cut through the chatter. "If you want to talk hockey, we can talk hockey. Otherwise, we're done here."
Allison finally managed to make her feet work, hurrying back down the hallway before anyone could spot her. Her heart pounded with a rhythm that felt too much like doubt.
The timing was fortunate. ... I don’t discuss my personal life.
She'd known the media was obsessed with their winning streak, with the puck, with her grandfather's legacy. But hearing them suggest it and not hearing Kane deny it or saying they were an item that didn’t include the puck, really hurt.
"Allison?"
She spun to find Dmitri watching her with uncharacteristic seriousness, his practice gear slung over one shoulder.
"You hear, yes?" His accent was thicker than usual, the way it got when he was tired or worried. "Is not good, listening to media vultures. They make everything into story."
"I should go."
"Stay for practice." Dmitri's smile was gentle. "Watch team. Is better than listening to doubts."
She should refuse. Should go home and process what she'd heard. Should protect her heart the way she'd promised herself she would after Jesse.
Instead, she wandered to the stands, settling into a seat just behind the bench as the team took the ice for practice. From here, she could see everything—every drill, every interaction, every moment that showed who these men really were beyond the media narratives.
Dmitri's skating lacked its usual flair. He went through the motions of his usual pre-practice figure skating routine, but his heart wasn't in it.
Oliver was trying too hard, doing extra for the camera he'd set up to film practice highlights. Every time he made a mistake, he glanced at it like he was already imagining the social media comments. The pressure of maintaining his online presence showed in the tension of his shoulders.
Marcus ran every drill with textbook precision, but Allison noticed him checking his watch between plays. She remembered him mentioning his parents wanted him to apply to graduate schools, to have a "backup plan" beyond hockey. The weight of expectations showed in his too-perfect form.
And Liam, the usually steady goalie, was off his game. He was letting in shots he'd normally save in his sleep. Every miss made him swear loudly.
"They're all struggling," she murmured.
She thought about how well she'd come to know these men over the past weeks. How Dmitri's homesickness showed in his face when he thought no one was looking. How Oliver's carefully curated social media presence hid his fear of letting people down. How Marcus used statistics to make sense of a world that wanted him to be more than just a hockey player. How Liam baked his grandmother’s recipes when he was nervous about big games.
Kane's voice carried across the ice as he directed the power play unit. She watched him lead, encourage, support—everything a captain should be. But was that all it was? Strategy and superstition and doing whatever it took to win?
The timing was fortunate.
Why not say instead, “It was just a coincidence. The puck isn’t magical. We’re just that good.”
I don’t discuss my personal life.
Why not say instead, “Allison and I are together. The puck is a non-issue.”
Because it was fortunate she showed up with the puck and it was a big freakin’ issue.
Practice continued, and Allison found herself drawn into the rhythm of it. She watched Oliver nail a particularly difficult shot, his genuine smile so different from his camera-ready grin. Saw Marcus explain a complex play to one of the younger players, his natural teaching ability shining through. Noticed Liam relaxing into his net after some encouraging words from Kane, finding his confidence again.
Kane. She couldn't stop watching him, the way he seemed to know exactly what each teammate needed. A firm word here, a joke there, a quiet conversation in the corner. Leading not through luck or superstition, but through understanding and support.
Her phone buzzed with the building's group chat:
Mrs. Peterson: Making playoff socks. Need everyone's sizes.
Jenny: Watch Party planning meeting tonight.
Mr. Collins: Can anyone show me how to use FaceTime?
Allison smiled, feeling more connected to the people in her building in these weeks than she had in the years she lived in Boston.
"Penny for your thoughts?"
She startled. Practice had ended while she was scrolling through the chat. Kane stood at the bottom of the stands, still in his gear minus his helmet.
"Just catching up on a few things." She stood up. “I should get going.”
"We could grab dinner, talk about—"
"I can't." The words came out too fast. "I have... library things."
His face fell. "Right. Of course."
"Kane..."
"It's fine." But it wasn't, and they both knew it.
She watched him walk away, her heart pulling in two directions. Part of her wanted to call him back, to forget what she'd overheard, to trust that what was growing between them was real.
But the other part remembered the timing was fortunate and couldn't stop wondering if everything—the flirting, the kisses, the quiet moments between chaos—was just another playoff strategy.
Her phone buzzed again.
Dmitri: Team dinner at my apartment!
How did she get signed up to this chat? She wasn’t part of the team.
Dmitri: Teaching everyone proper borscht appreciation. No excuses. Is mandatory team bonding.
Oliver : I'm documenting this for posterity.
Marcus: 92% chance of food poisoning based on last attempt.
Liam: I'm bringing backup pizzas just in case.
Allison looked at her phone, then at Kane's retreating figure, then back at the ice where so many moments of connection had happened.
Maybe understanding came through watching and waiting, through seeing people as they really were beyond the narratives and pressures and expectations. Maybe it was time to stop listening to doubts and start trusting her own observations.
"Kane!" The word echoed in the empty arena.
He turned, hope and wariness warring on his face.
"Save me some borscht?"
His smile was slow but real. "Always."
It wasn't a resolution. They still needed to talk about what she'd overheard, about expectations and pressure and trust. But watching him walk away with lighter shoulders, Allison thought maybe that was okay. Because sometimes understanding came one small moment at a time.
SAVORY AROMAS FILLED Dmitri's apartment, where he'd spent the day preparing a team dinner. A pot of beef stroganoff simmered on the stove while something simmered in another pot, filling the air with the scent of beef and vegetables. Classical music played softly in the background, a piano concerto that reminded him of home.
"Welcome to team dinner," Dmitri announced as everyone filed in. "My mother always says food brings family together. Is important before playoffs."
"It smells amazing," Allison said, peering at the various pots. "What's this one?"
"Borscht." Dmitri lifted the lid, revealing a rich, deep red soup. "Is like therapy in bowl. Beef, beets, cabbage, everything good. My mother swears it heals all injuries."
"Is that why you've been force-feeding it to Jax every time he takes a hard hit?" Kane asked, grinning.
"Works better than your ice packs," Dmitri shot back.
"His recovery time improved by thirty percent,” Marcus said.
"That's because he'll do anything to stop you hovering with soup," Oliver chimed in, already setting up his camera.
"Statistics don't lie." Marcus pulled out his phone. "I've been tracking team injuries against borscht consumption. The correlation is actually quite interesting—"
"No statistics at dinner," Coach Vicky called from the doorway. "But I will take some of that borscht. My grandmother used to make it after every game."
"First you must learn proper technique." Dmitri demonstrated, spooning sour cream into the deep red soup and stirring it to create a perfect swirl. "Is art form. Like triple axel, but with spoon."
"Here we go," Oliver muttered. "Twenty minutes about proper borscht technique."
"Better than your twenty minutes about Instagram filters," Kane chirped.
"And these?" Allison gestured to what looked like small dumplings keeping warm in the oven, trying to head off the social media versus soup technique debate.
"Pelmeni! Best part of meal." His face lit up with pride. "Is like tiny pockets of happiness. Meat wrapped in pasta. My cousin taught me her secret. A bit of ice water in filling makes them juicy."
"Over FaceTime," Oliver added. "He also spent three hours with his mom yesterday getting the recipes exactly right."
"Is better than your protein shake dinners." Dmitri sniffed. "No wonder your one-timer lacks power. Need real food for real hockey."
"My protein shakes are scientifically formulated—"
"Science cannot compete with grandmother's recipes," Dmitri declared. "Is proven fact."
"Actually," Marcus started, but several teammates threw napkins at him before he could launch into another statistical analysis.
As the team settled into eating, Allison noticed the individual dramas playing out around her. Dmitri kept glancing at his phone, positioned to show the time in Moscow. Oliver alternated between filming and checking his social media metrics. Marcus had a physics textbook propped against the table.
Each of them balancing their hockey lives with personal pressures—family across oceans, online expectations, academic demands.
"It's a lot, isn't it?" Kane murmured beside her, following her gaze. "Everyone trying to juggle hockey with everything else."
"At least they have each other," Allison said, watching Dmitri show Marcus's something on his phone that made them both laugh. "The team seems really close."
"We are."
The team. Always about the team. The words from the press conference echoed in her head—about luck and superstitions and playoff pressure.
"Allison." His hand found hers under the table. "About what you heard earlier at the press conference..."
"I get it." She stirred her borscht, watching the sour cream create patterns. "The team needs good luck. The puck helps morale."
"No." His fingers tightened on hers. "Well, yes, but that's not—" He broke off, frustrated. "Could we talk somewhere private?"
They slipped onto Dmitri's balcony, the sounds of team dinner muted behind the glass door. The night air was crisp, carrying the promise of playoff weather.
"What I said to those reporters..." Kane ran a hand through his hair. "I was trying to protect you. From the media circus, the pressure, all of it. But I did it wrong. Made it sound like you were just some good luck charm for the team."
"Aren't I?" The words came out more bitter than she intended.
"God, no." He turned to face her fully. "Allison, you're the best thing that's happened to me. Not the team— me. And that terrifies me because I've never wanted anything more than hockey before. Never let myself want anything more."
"Kane—"
"Let me finish. Please." He took her hands in his. "The timing wasn't fortunate because of the puck or the winning streak. It was fortunate because it brought you into my life.”
Through the glass, they could see Dmitri laughing at something his mother was saying on video chat, his whole face lit up with joy.
"The team doesn't need your grandfather's puck," Kane continued softly. "We need you. I need you. And I'm sorry I didn't make that clear to those reporters. I was trying to shield you from the attention, but instead I made you doubt what's between us."
"I've been burned before," she whispered. "When hockey and relationships mix..."
"I know." He touched her cheek. "But I'm not Jesse. And what I feel for you has nothing to do with luck or playoffs or anything except who you are."
The balcony door slid open. "Borscht gets cold," Dmitri announced. "Also, walls are thin and we can all hear your beautiful confession. Very romantic. Like Tchaikovsky ballet."
"Dmitri." Kane's tone was warning, but his ears were red.
"Fine, fine. But hurry back. Is time for pelmeni, and Kane's technique needs work."
The door closed again. Kane pressed his forehead to Allison's, laughing softly. "So... are we okay?"
"Yeah," she smiled. "We are. Though your pelmeni technique really does need work."
"I'll have you know my technique is perfectly adequate."
She kissed him then, soft and sweet and full of promise. Behind them, the team burst into cheers and wolf whistles. Through the glass, she could see Oliver filming, Dmitri wiping away fake tears, and Marcus already calculating something on his phone.
"Should we give them something worth filming?" Kane murmured against her lips.
"Absolutely not." But she was smiling as she pulled him back inside, where the warmth of team dinner and family video calls and future possibilities waited. The puck might have brought them together, but what kept them together was something far more powerful than luck.