20. Gabe
20 /
gabe
After parking at the airport’s private terminal, Brody and I grabbed our bags from the trunk. The sharp wind blew through my coat as I locked the car and turned to him. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes. Let’s do it.” His voice was calm despite a furrowed brow.
“Good.” I adjusted my grip on the suitcase handle, then nodded toward his bag. “Pull that with your right hand.”
“Why?”
I took his left hand. “Because I’m holding this one.”
The tension in his face melted into a shy smile, and with our fingers laced, we headed for the terminal. The automatic doors whooshed open, and as a concierge appeared to take our luggage, Brody squeezed my hand and didn’t let go.
Across the room, our teammates were gathered in small groups around a table loaded with pastries and coffee. The hum of animated conversation filled the air, and I led Brody toward the nearest group.
Packy, Riley, and Santos looked up as we approached. Their eyes flicked to our joined hands, then back to our faces. Not a single eyebrow lifted.
“Flight’s delayed because of fog,” Riley said, pointing at the coffee. “Might as well grab a cup.”
I glanced at Brody, who tightened his grip on me. We murmured our thanks and moved toward the refreshments. The next group was clustered near the coffee urn: Holky, Harpy, Logan, and a few others.
Holky was wearing a big grin. “What’s up, Chief?” His voice was as chipper as if it were noon instead of seven a.m.
Logan looked like he was asleep on his feet, but he nodded in greeting. “Good thing the flight’s running late. You two are cutting it close.”
Harpy glanced down, and his eyes locked on our joined hands. Then, with an amused smile, he stepped back and gestured toward the coffee. “Need some caffeine?”
It was like someone had hit the slow-motion button. One by one, the guys noticed Harpy’s hesitation and looked down. Then, with synchronized precision, their gazes snapped back up. Their grins were somewhere between conspiratorial and downright creepy.
I glanced at Brody, whose wide-eyed look screamed, What the hell’s going on? I gave a one-shoulder shrug, dropped his hand, and slid an arm around his waist.
“Ready for Dallas tonight?” Holky asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking about the weather.
“They’re nasty fuckers this season,” Harpy said.
“Not nasty enough.” Logan’s voice was dry as toast. “We’ll leave them bruised and bleeding in their own arena.”
The others nodded, grunting in agreement like there was nothing else worth commenting on in the world. My patience snapped. “All right, guys. Brody and I have some news.”
Brody stiffened beside me but kept his voice steady. “Great news, actually.”
Holky raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “Let’s hear it.”
I drew in a breath and said, “Brody and I are together.”
“We’re in love,” Brody added. “This is real.”
Dead silence. After what felt like an hour, Harpy offered up another smile. “Are we supposed to act surprised?”
Holky nodded gravely before saying, in the flattest voice imaginable, “Woo hoo. Brody and Gabe are in love.”
“Shocking,” another guy said.
Logan cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Warriors! Gabe and Tanner have come clean. They’re in love, and we’re all supposed to act surprised.”
From every corner of the room came fake gasps, over-the-top cheers, and exaggerated groans.
“Tell us something we don’t know,” Jax called out from across the table. “When you get married, we all expect to be groomsmen.”
That got a much bigger reaction than our announcement had. After a few beats, everyone laughed and crowded around us—clapping us on the back, ruffling our hair, and offering congratulations. All in all, just another day in the Warriors’ world when they were happy for their teammates.
“Congrats, you two,” Harpy said, holding out his fist for a bump. “Most of us had it figured out before the end of the first road trip.”
“Fuckers.” I laughed and shook my head.
“All fuckers,” Brody agreed, wearing a wide grin that made my heart flutter.
The room gradually settled, and conversation shifted back to hockey and road-trip plans. As the buzz picked up again, Brody leaned close and whispered, “So they knew the whole time?”
I smiled and kissed his temple. “Every damn one of them.”
The Dallas Thunder were in peak form, which for them meant testing the boundaries of the rulebook at every opportunity. Why not, with no price to pay? Illegal checks, trips, charges, and boarding—it didn’t matter what they did, the officials turned a blind eye. A goalie’s job is to be laser-focused on every play, and from my vantage point in the crease, it was clear they weren’t even trying to hide their antics. Meanwhile, we were getting whistled for any phantom infraction that entered an official’s head, and I wondered how long it would be until the fighting started.
The Thunder’s dirty play didn’t faze our first line. Harpy in the center, with Carson on his left and Richie Mason on his right, were a force to be reckoned with. Brody and Riley were backing them up. Fifteen minutes into the first period, Richie found twine with a wrister that left Dallas’s goalie frozen. Their coach made an offside challenge, but the review confirmed the goal. Adding insult to injury, the Thunder received a two-minute delay-of-game penalty. Advantage Warriors, five men to four.
Dallas’s center won the ensuing faceoff, sending the puck to his lone defenseman, who charged toward our zone with Brody following, stuck to him like glue. I shifted in the crease, tracking the puck as the D-man wound up for a shot. A quick shuffle to my right put me in perfect position, and the puck thunked off my pads. Carson grabbed the rebound and rocketed down the ice, drawing two Thunder players with him before passing to Riley. Under pressure, Riley dished to Brody, who flew down the ice like he’d been shot from a cannon. As he closed in on the net, one of the Thunder wingers caught up, forcing Brody to make a quick pass to Harpy, who had two Thunder players closing in fast.
Harpy skated backward, baiting one of Dallas’s players, then spun like a tornado, releasing the puck in a tight circle. It flew past the goalie’s glove and into the net. The red light blazed, and we were up 2–0.
Our lead held through the first intermission. After stripping out of our jerseys and pads, we barely had time to breathe before Criswell came storming in.
“You’re playing well,” he said, his voice deceptively calm. “But stay out of the fucking box. They didn’t capitalize this time, but they’re the goddamn Thunder. They don’t need much. If we keep giving them power plays, they’ll punish us.”
The second period was a grind. Endless whistles for icing and dubious calls bogged us down. Packy served two stints in the box—two minutes for roughing, and the first three of a five-minute major for fighting after Logan got slammed into the boards by Hawkeye Burke, the Thunder’s captain. Hawk’s hit looked accidental, but it sparked a scrum that ended up with Packy and Dallas’s winger dropping their gloves. The refs let the fight go until Dallas’s man was on his back and Packy was beating the shit out of him. Both earned majors, and Criswell was livid three minutes later when the period ended.
“What the almighty fuck is wrong with you?” he barked, pacing the locker room like a caged lion. “I told you to stay out of the goddamn box. You really listened, didn’t you, Packy? How the hell did you manage to land in there twice? And you’ve still got two minutes to go when the third period starts.” Criswell’s face had turned an alarming shade of red, and he took a moment to calm himself before going on. “Dallas hasn’t scored yet, but you’re all flirting with disaster. A two-goal lead is nothing. The Thunder can erase it in under a minute, and then what? Get your heads in the game, play clean, and for the love of all that’s holy, find me another goal. We need some fucking insurance.”
Criswell stormed out, leaving tension crackling like a live wire. Brody walked over to my stall and broke the silence when he called out, “Listen up. Coach is right. We need to win this, and we can’t do it playing sloppy. But there’s another reason to give it everything we’ve got.” He put a hand on my shoulder and kept talking. “I want my man to have a shutout. He’s been a fucking wall tonight, and he deserves it.”
I froze, caught between pride and panic, as the guys burst into cheers and whistles.
“Aw, that’s adorable,” Holky said. “But if you’re going to get cozy at the arena, keep it in the shower after we all leave.”
“Fuck, no,” Logan said. “Go find a soundproofed room somewhere. You kept me up on the last roadie.”
Others agreed, calling out everything from “learn to be quiet” to “gross” to “no fucking way.”
Riley snickered and shook his head. “If you gotta do it in the shower, at least clean up after yourselves.”
Brody, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world, leaned down and kissed me. No tongue, but a full-on, prolonged smooch that had the guys hooting and laughing.
Jax threw up his hands. “All right, boys, time to hit the ice before these two start making out for real. Let’s get Gabe his shutout and leave the Thunder humiliated.”
The tension broke like a dam. Laughter filled the room, and the team rallied around us with fist bumps and slaps on the back. Brody’s boldness had worked its magic, and as we lined up to hit the ice, I felt invincible. Tonight wasn’t solely about the game; it was about my guy and me, and we weren’t hiding anymore.
Harpy won the first faceoff cleanly, sending the puck back to Riley. But Riley hesitated a beat too long; by the time he started toward the Thunder’s zone, one of their defensemen pounced, stripping the puck clean. The guy streaked down the ice toward me.
I remembered him from previous games. He had a weird, twitchy skating style, like he was riding a fault line. Combined with the way he handled the puck—loose and unpredictable—it made him a nightmare to track. My pulse kicked up as he closed in fast, zigzagging enough to keep me guessing.
I pushed out of the crease to cut down his angle, focusing on the puck as it danced on his stick. His blade tipped back, and I knew the shot was coming. He launched it from about twenty feet out, a bullet streaking toward me on the right. It had speed but wobbled midair like it couldn’t decide where to land. I raised my blocker, reading the trajectory as best I could, but a voice in the back of my head nagged: This might not be enough.
The puck hit my blocker with a sharp thwack, and the impact jarred my arm. It ricocheted off and dropped onto the ice, rolling harmlessly toward the boards. Relief surged through me as the roar of the crowd faded into groans.
By then, our boys had caught up. Harpy scooped up the puck and jetted off toward the Thunder’s zone, his speed like a shot of adrenaline to the team. I stayed where I was, of course, sucking in a deep breath and watching as they charged down the ice.
Shutout preserved—for now.
Harpy maintained possession of the puck all the way to the Thunder’s goal and took what looked like a perfect shot. I’d faced him in practice often enough to know how fierce his shots could be—rockets fired at insane angles that made them nearly impossible to stop. But tonight, the Thunder’s goalie made it look easier than it was, snapping his glove up to catch the puck with a smug efficiency that made my jaw tighten.
Through shift change after shift change, the clock wound down, and the intensity ramped up. Both teams soared across the ice, trading rushes and turnovers with dizzying speed. My brain worked overtime to track every breakaway and clusterfuck in front of either net. Once, while a knot of players battled near the boards in our zone, the puck squirted free to Hawk. He wound up for one of his signature slapshots, and the crack of his stick striking the puck reverberated through the arena.
I moved on instinct, pushing hard to my right as the puck streaked toward me like a heat-seeking missile. My glove flashed up, and the impact stung as I snagged it clean. The roar of the Warriors’ fans in the stands filled my ears, and I let out a long breath.
Another save. Shutout still intact.
But the pressure was unrelenting. The Thunder came back hard on their next rush, but Harpy and Mason worked together to force a turnover, and Mason sent the puck sailing down the ice to Brody. He caught it just as the game clock ticked below thirty seconds.
Brody was off like a shot, his powerful strides eating up the ice. The Thunder scrambled to stop him, but our forwards had blocked their lanes. Brody crossed the blue line with defenders on his heels, his every movement screaming determination. He was heading in the other direction, but I could see the intensity in his movements.
Twenty seconds.
A Thunder winger tried to pin him against the boards, but Brody spun out of it, protecting the puck like it was his most precious possession. He juked past another defender, skating with impossible speed, and cut toward the slot.
Ten seconds.
The Thunder’s goalie dropped into a butterfly stance, squaring up for Brody’s shot. I could just make out the glint of desperation, the tension in his frame as he prepared to react.
Brody pulled back for a wrister, but at the last second, he deked left. The goalie lunged, trying to follow, but Brody’s move was too quick. He kept the puck on his blade, dragging it around the flailing netminder, and released a shot from an impossible angle.
The red light behind the goal flared as the puck found its home.
The arena erupted. Buffalo fans went ballistic, and Dallas’s faithful bayed for blood. At the bench, our guys leapt to their feet, slamming sticks against the boards and shouting Brody’s name.
I nearly fell to my knees in relief, my heart pounding like a bass drum. The buzzer sounded, and our teammates swarmed Brody, knocking on his helmet and slapping his back.
Game over. Shutout achieved.
From across the ice, Brody caught my eye, his grin wide enough to split his face. He tapped his chest twice, then pointed at me.
A lump filled my throat, and I nodded. That goal wasn’t just for the team. It was for me. For us .
And damn, it felt like the start of something even bigger than we already had.