Chapter 9
Colt
I've been in this arena a thousand times before.
Skated on that ice until my blades carved grooves into the surface. Heard my name boom from the speakers while twelve thousand people lost their minds.
Hell, I've been knocked unconscious and carted out through the tunnel on a stretcher, loaded into the back of an ambulance with lights painting the parking lot red and blue, sirens wailing into the night like the town itself was screaming.
But I've never sat in the stands like this.
I shift on the padded seat, my knee bouncing as I look around and take it all in.
It's Gameday in Chilmore, and the arena is still filling up around me, the pre-game hum building like a wave. The ice gleams under the lights, fresh and immaculate, the Snow Leopards logo at center ice glowing purple and gold before my eyes.
From up here, everything looks different.
Smaller, somehow. But bigger at the same time.
I can see the bench where I usually sit between line changes, the water bottles Willa has lined up like soldiers, the scuff marks on the boards from a thousand body checks.
I can see the tunnel where we emerge, where that leopard roar shakes the walls so hard we've now been voted 'Best Atmosphere in the League.'
And the seats.
God, the seats.
I tip my head back, scanning the rows that rise around me in a steep bowl of purple and gold. Thousands of them. They're filling fast, with fans dressed in jackets and scarves and foam fingers, all of them beginning to populate the lower sections like a tide of passion rolling in.
It's a lot to sit up here tonight, alone, even if only for now.
I've looked up into these stands more times than I can count. After every goal, every assist, every fight won or shift survived.
My entire life, I've looked up, scanning the faces, searching for…
What?
My parents, maybe. In the beginning.
Before I learned that they'd watch the highlights on TV and send a text after. Before I stopped expecting them to show up and started expecting the silence instead.
After that, I'd look up and just… look. At the couples sitting together in their seats. The dads with kids on their shoulders. The girlfriends in jerseys too big for them, screaming so hard their voices cracked.
I always wondered what it felt like to have someone there.
Someone who isn't a sponsor. Not a social media team or a casual hookup who wanted the VIP experience and a story to tell their friends when I eventually stopped writing back.
I've always searched for someone who was there for me.
Just me.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and stare at the two empty seats beside me.
They're prime real estate inside this arena. Behind the home bench, close enough to hear the coaches barking as the sticks crack and the players swear at each other in a way only professionals truly understand.
When the glass shakes from a hit and you're this close to the action, you feel it in your spine.
My knee bounces harder as more seats fill around me.
Where are they?
I check my phone. Nothing. I look toward the main entrance tunnel at the top of the section. Fans are streaming in now, a river of purple and gold scarves, Snow Leopards jerseys and face paint, the bass of the pre-game playlist thumping through the floor beneath my sneakers.
The scent of arena food drifts down from the concourse.
Buttered popcorn and hot dogs mixing with spilled beer.
The lights are flashing as the DJ works the crowd from his booth.
Somewhere above me, Prowl the mascot is doing backflips on the mezzanine railing while a group of kids cheer for our favorite mascot.
Yep. This is my world.
And in about ten minutes, Zoey Morrison is going to walk into it.
My stomach does something that has no business happening to a professional athlete who once scored a hat trick in the Western Conference Finals without breaking a sweat.
Calm down, Lane. It's just a hockey game.
Then five minutes later, right at the top of the section, framed by the tunnel entrance and backlit by the purple glow of the concourse lights, Zoey appears.
I stand upright, smiling broadly as Zoey places one hand on Morgan's shoulder, scanning the rows like she's navigating a foreign country.
She's wearing jeans and a purple sweater that makes her look so soft I want to bury my face in it.
Her hair is down tonight, falling past her shoulders in dark waves, and all I can think about is what it would feel like between my fingers.
Against my pillow. Spread across my chest at two in the morning while she sleeps and I stare at the ceiling wondering how I got this lucky.
Get it together, Lane.
And Morgan—
Morgan is already gone.
Her mouth is hanging open so wide I can see it from thirty rows away. She's gripping Zoey's arm with both hands, her head swiveling in every direction like she's trying to absorb the entire arena through her eyeballs.
I can't help but chuckle.
She's wearing her Snow Leopards jersey that's two sizes too big and hangs past her knees, and her sparkly sneakers are practically vibrating on the concrete stairs.
I stand up and wave my arms in the air, careful not to knock the surprises I've hidden beneath the chair.
Morgan spots me first. Her shriek cuts through the ambience.
"COLT!"
She breaks free of Zoey's grip and sprints down the stairs at full speed. Zero regard for gravity, physics, or the basic concept of not dying on stadium steps.
I brace myself just in time as she launches off the last step and crashes into me with enough force to knock me back into my seat.
"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!"
"Hey, Morgs." I laugh, steadying her. "Good to see you too."
She grabs my face with both hands, squishing my cheeks together so I look like a fish.
"Colt. This is the greatest place I have ever been in my entire life and I'm never leaving. I live here now. Tell my mother."
"Morgan!" Zoey arrives, slightly breathless, slightly mortified. "You can't just run down—"
"Mom, look at the ICE." Morgan releases my face and spins around, arms spread wide like she's presenting the arena to an invisible audience. "It's so big! And the lights! And—look! It's Prowl!"
She points toward the zipline above the ice where the mascot is now pretending to eat a child's cotton candy.
"I LOVE HIM!"
Zoey sinks into the seat beside me with the expression of a woman who has just realized she cannot control a single thing that's about to happen tonight.
"Hi." She exhales, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"Hi." I grin. "You made it."
"Barely. She's been like this since breakfast. I had to take her to the park just so she could burn off some energy."
"So I take it you didn't get to do any of that recipe testing you wanted to?" I ask, holding her gaze a beat longer than I should.
Her eyes flick up to mine, and there's that little pause, the one where I wonder if she's still thinking about that kiss too.
"No," she says, the smile fading just a little. "I didn't. Morgan had a meltdown about which leggings were arena-appropriate, so I burned the first test batch, and then somebody — not naming names — emptied an entire bag of flour onto the kitchen floor trying to 'help.'"
I chuckle. "Sounds like a productive Saturday."
Zoey glances around, taking in the arena with slower, wider eyes than her daughter. I can't look away from her as she takes in the steep bowl of seats rising around us, the gleaming ice, the massive screens cycling through player highlights and sponsor logos.
"This is…" She shakes her head. "It's full on."
"Good full on or bad full on?"
She shrugs. "I'll let you know."
I watch her settle into her chair as she pulls her jacket off and drapes it across her lap. Her fingers curl around the edge of the armrest and her gaze keeps drifting back to the ice, like she's trying to understand the thing that's held me hostage since I was four years old.
"Okay." I lean down and start pulling out the contents I've kept hidden beneath my seat. "Before puck drop, we need to address something critical."
Zoey's eyes narrow and I now have Morgan's full attention despite Prowl still doing some weird acrobatics in mid-air.
"Why do I feel like I'm going to regret sitting down?" Zoey says, eyes studying the smug look on my face.
I reach beneath my chair and pull out the first item. A giant purple foam finger, the kind that's bigger than Morgan's entire torso.
"For the kid."
I hand it across and Morgan gasps like I've just presented her with the Holy Grail.
I reach back underneath and fetch the bucket of popcorn. Not a bag. A bucket. The king-sized ones they only sell at the premium concession stand, drowning in melted butter and dusted with that seasoning blend Lars sold to Big Mike years ago.
Zoey stares at the bucket. "That could feed a family of six."
"Or one hockey fan and her mother." I set it between our seats, still grinning. "And last but not least…"
I pull out a colossal souvenir cup the size of Morgan's head, frosted electric purple and topped with a snap-on lid shaped like a snarling leopard. The Snow Leopards logo glitters across one side in gold foil, and on the other side… is my face.
Mid-celebration. Frozen forever in a sweaty, gap-toothed grin from last season's playoff run, airbrushed onto plastic like I'm some kind of cereal box mascot.
Morgan's eyes go supernova.
"NO WAY."
But the real showstopper? The straw.
A neon green spiral monstrosity that corkscrews up from the lid in four impossible loops, twisting and curling through the air like a roller coaster designed by someone who's never heard the word restraint.
"Way." I hand it to her, and she cradles it against her jersey like a newborn.
Zoey leans across and reads the cup size printed on the side. Her eye twitches.
"Colt. That's a thirty-two-ounce soda."
"Frozen soda," I correct proudly, winking at Morgan. "It's game fuel, Morrison."
"She's ten."
"And she's going to need the energy. This game's going to be intense."