22. Chapter 22 #2
“This city gave me a career. This team gave me a family. I want to give something back that lasts longer than my stick on a wall or my number on a banner. My name doesn’t matter. What matters is what we build. I can show you more, but I think I’d be repeating myself.”
Silence. Alton nods once.
“I have no more questions,” he says.
“Neither do I,” Sofia adds, closing her folder.
Tinnie leans back, a small smile tugging. “Well,” she says dryly, “guess the captain can talk after all.”
Alton chuckles and stands. “Congratulations, Dominic,” he says, offering his hand. “The board approved the initiative this morning. Blaze Academy has its green light.”
The second I open the boardroom door, the entire team almost falls inside.
Matt. Tanner. Addams. O’Connor. Davidson. Jace. The rookies and the backup goalie— they’re all huddled in the hallway like middle schoolers, shoulder to shoulder, trying to hear what went down. I step out, push them back, and they stumble into each other.
“What happened?!” “What’d they say?!” “Did you fucking do it?!”
Jace barrels through them like a linebacker, eyes wild. “Dom!” he shouts, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. “DID. YOU. FUCKING. DO. IT?!”
I let the pause hang, then grin slow.
“Yeah,” I say. “We got the green light.”
The hallway erupts. Matt’s shouting war cries, Addams launches a high five that turns into a hug, Tanner’s jumping like we just won the Cup, O’Connor fist-pumps and accidentally hits Davidson in the jaw.
Jace drops his head to my chest like I just came back from war. “My fucking guy,” he mutters. “You fucking did it.” He grabs my face like a dramatic girlfriend and, dead serious, says, “I’ve never been prouder of you, and I’ve seen you skate with a torn MCL.”
I grunt, laughing as I shove him back.
“You gonna name it after yourself?” Matt yells.
“No one’s naming anything,” I start. “It’s the Blazers’ Youth Academy. All of us. Every single one of you is part of this.”
I can’t stop smiling. I feel like a kid whose dream came true, with my guys around me, yelling and feeling it.
More shouting, swears, slaps on the back. Matt chest-bumps Addams into the vending machine.
Jace moves in and, without a word, hugs me. He squeezes so hard my upper back cracks when I exhale. “Dom. Like… I could actually kiss you right now.”
“Hot,” I snort. “But you’re not my type.”
He acts offended. “What is it? It’s because I wax, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I nod. “And the fact that you’re swinging a nine-incher down there. I prefer oysters over sausages.”
“But if there aren’t any oysters around,” he grins .
“Then you can call me,” I say, snorting. “Now, try not to trip on your way to jack off,” I pat his cheek.
Chaos ensues all around me.
A firm hand lands on my shoulder. I turn to face Zed. He’s massive, in his usual black, but his pale green-blue eyes crinkle and his mouth tilts.
Zed is smiling.
It’s not big, but it’s a smile. It takes a second and a few blinks to recognize my old friend — the curve of his mouth, the smile lines, the faint glint in his eyes. Little Z is still in there.
“Congratulations, D,” he says, clapping my shoulder once.
“Thank you.”
He nods and wipes the faint smile off his face. Even five seconds of that is enough. I’ll fucking take it.
The boardroom door opens behind me. Alton steps out, trying to sidestep the bouncing chaos.
“Dominic,” Alton says, shaking my hand again, amused. “Congratulations once more.”
“Thank you.”
Then he turns to Zed. “And thank you, Mercer, for your generous investment. Your support will make a tremendous difference in the long-term viability of the program.”
Wait. What?
Zed bows his head slightly as Alton and Delgado walk off with the others.
I blink and look at Zed, who reads my expression instantly.
“I read the proposal,” he says.
“You funded it?” I ask.
“Part of it,” he replies. “Didn’t want to say anything until it was real.” He glances at the guys around us. “Kids should have more places to go than we did.”
The hallway noise fades, even though I can still hear the boys behind me.
“Why?” I ask, shaking my head.
“Because I believe in it,” he answers simply. “Ever since I read the proposal, I’ve been thinking about it. You put your money into it as well. So I figured… maybe I should too.”
Zed and I both have more money than we need. We don’t play hockey because we need the money; we play because we love it and because we both have something we’re running from. I know Jace invested, but Zed backing me up like that? It means something.
I step closer, hand resting on his shoulder. I feel the strength there, but also the weight he carries. I know what I found online. I know what happened. I know he’s been carrying it on those shoulders ever since.
I look at him, realizing how much I miss the kid I used to know.
“Z,” I say, voice low. “I’m really sorry.”
His brows dip as he registering my words. He inhales sharply. My fingers tighten where they rest on his shoulder. He looks at me for a long moment, then gives the smallest nod.
Jessica’s atelier is tucked away where you wouldn’t find it unless you were looking — a quiet street near the water, the breeze louder than the traffic.
I’m standing out front, holding a bottle of Dom Pérignon in one hand and two flutes in the other. The blinds are pulled back and I can see inside .
She’s in the zone: high ponytail bouncing, one hand on her hip, the other wielding a pencil that dances furiously across a massive pinned sketch. Her mouth moves like she’s arguing with whatever dress is in front of her, a measuring tape draped around her neck like a scarf.
She looks radiant.
Goddamn. She made it happen. The Youth Academy was my idea, my fight, my pitch, my push, but she’s the reason it landed.
I shift the champagne and knock on the glass.
Her head snaps up. The second her eyes land on me, she lights up; a smile spreads and she bolts for the door. I don’t have time to brace myself before it swings open and she launches into me.
I grunt a laugh, trying not to drop the bottle. “You missed me that much, huh?”
She pulls back just enough to flash me the brightest smile, then steps into the atelier and freezes, brows knitting as suspicion creeps across her face.
“Wait…” she says slowly, narrowing her eyes. “How do you even know where my atelier is?”
“I have my ways.”
“That’s creepy!” She points at me — and only then notices what I’m holding. Her eyes scan the champagne and flutes.
“What is this?”
“This is for you.”
When I called from the hotel yesterday, she’d told me everything that went down: the coordinator loved what she showed, the review team didn’t just approve her, they bumped her up. She’s officially locked in for the fashion show. They’re already casting models using her measurements.
“Come in.”
“Lock up for the day,” I say, adjusting the bottle.
“Why?”
“Lock up, Jessica,” I repeat, my heart kicking like I’m about to take a slap shot.
I’ve never done this before. Never felt giddy about a surprise. Never felt my chest tighten wanting someone to see what I set up just for them.
It's a stupid, vulnerable feeling—like I'm standing on the edge of something I want to keep.