Chapter 35
thirty-five
BEN
The Hockey House is trying to vibrate itself off its foundation.
“—and I saw the lane close, right? But then I thought, wait, if I drop to the backhand—”
“You threaded two defensemen.” The kid’s voice cracks like he’s witnessing divine intervention. “On a no-look.”
“It was mostly luck.”
Cass snorts. “Modesty is a bad look on you, Kellerman.”
The freshman’s gaze darts to her—leather jacket, smudged eyeliner, the heavy championship medal hanging around her neck like she won it herself—and I can practically see the variables failing to compute. The hockey-bro script doesn’t have a chapter on punk girlfriends.
“She’s with me,” I say, simple and easy, because I can say that now.
“Obviously,” Cass says. “Someone has to keep the giant humble.”
Then the music dies.
Not fades. Dies. Then the collective groan hits.
“WHAT THE FUCK—”
“Who touched it?”
“NASH, I SWEAR TO GOD—”
Nash’s voice rises above the chaos. “It wasn’t me!”
Drunk college students mill around the entertainment setup like they’ve never seen technology before. Someone kicks a cable. Someone else suggests, with the confidence of a man who has never successfully connected a USB on the first try, that they “just need to jiggle the thing.”
I know what happened before I even look.
Three months ago, I would have stayed exactly where I was and let someone else fumble through the fix while I pretended I didn’t know the difference between a thermal shutdown and a blown fuse. Admitting I knew this stuff meant admitting I was that guy.
But three months ago, I didn’t have Cass.
I hand her my beer. “Hold this.”
“Where are you—”
But I’m already moving.
The crowd parts—being six-foot-four has its advantages—and I reach the speaker setup in four strides. The receiver is hot to the touch, a sign the cheap Bluetooth adapter finally cooked itself. My hands know what to do even before my brain finishes cataloging the problem.
“Everyone back up. Give me ten seconds.”
I unplug the faulty unit and trace the aux cable. The connection point is corroded, which is what happens when you let fraternity brothers near sensitive equipment, but it’s salvageable. I hot-swap the input directly into the main speaker line, bypassing the fried adapter entirely.
Eight seconds.
The system hums back to life. The bass drops.
The room explodes.
“KELLERMAN!”
“KG! KG! KG!”
They’re chanting my nickname—Kellerman Genius—and it’s not mockingly. It’s nothing like the way Nash used to say Sasquatch with that sharp edge of contempt. They’re cheering because I fixed something and because I knew how.
Because the weird part of me just saved their party.
When I turn, I find Cass has joined me in the living room. She’s smirking. “Competence is a really good look on you, Kellerman,” she says.
“Yeah?” I grin so hard my face hurts. “Thought you liked the gangly disaster vibe.”
She rises on her tiptoes and kisses me, quick and proprietary, in front of everyone. “Also, you’re blushing. Never stop.”
I’m definitely blushing.
As the party swirls back to life, Cass catches my eye and tilts her head toward the back. “Need air?” she asks.
I nod.
We drift away, but before we can make it to the back, we find royalty.
Rook is sitting on top of the kitchen island, holding court with a bottle of champagne like it’s a scepter. Morgan stands between his knees, one hand resting casually on his thigh with the easy possessiveness of someone who’s held that spot for months and has no intention of giving it up.
“THERE HE IS!” Rook’s voice booms over the music like he’s been practicing arena acoustics. “The man of the hour! The architect of victory!”
“The guy who set up the assist.” I shrug, trying to deflect. “Schmidt was the one who scored.”
“Details.” He waves this off, champagne sloshing. “Your pass was the goal. The rest was formality.”
Morgan catches my eye and shakes her head, an unspoken confirmation that loving this man means accepting chaos. “Well done, Ben,” she says.
“Congratulations are in order,” I say, smiling, because her ‘Morgue’ facade has cracked entirely over the past few months. “Boston?”
Rook’s face cycles through pride, terror, and disbelief like a slot machine that hasn’t decided where to land. “Bruins rookie camp in six weeks. I’m going to have to wear suits and give interviews, and pretend I know what ‘synergy’ means.”
“You don’t know what synergy means?” Cass asks.
“I know it’s corporate bullshit for ‘teamwork,’ but they say it like it’s religious.” He takes a dramatic swig. “I’m going to accidentally call someone a ‘fucking idiot’ in a press conference and get fined by the team immediately.”
Morgan clears her throat. “What my boyfriend is failing to mention is that the Boston professional women’s team sent me their training camp schedule yesterday. So it looks like we’re going to the same city at the same time, which is frankly quite frightening.”
I blink. “You’re both going to Boston?”
“We’re conquering it.” She grins. “Different teams. Same mission.”
“She’s going to steal my limelight,” Rook says. “I’ve made peace with it.”
“You have not.”
“I’ve mostly made peace with it.” He grins at her. “I’m working on it.”
Before I can respond, Rook lunges forward and drags me into an aggressive headlock-hug. “It’s your blue line next year, Kell.” He releases me but keeps one hand on my shoulder, eyes unexpectedly clear. “Keep Nash in line. Don’t let the kids burn the place down.”
He’s passing me the torch.
A year ago, I would have stammered about not being ready. But a year ago, I was still trying to run two separate programs—the Hockey Player and the Junker—and failing at both because I couldn’t figure out which one was the lie.
Turns out neither was.
“Yeah. I will,” I say.
“Good.” He grins. “Now go. I need to make out with my girlfriend.”
“Romantic,” Morgan says, her tone dry as she pulls him down.
We escape into the living room and run straight into the Alumni. The legends. Players whose jerseys hang in the arena and whose names get whispered by freshmen like prayers. But, like this, they just look like any normal group of friends.
“—that WASN’T interference, the guy was in the CREASE—”
“Kell!” Mike Altman is waving his phone. “Look at this!”
Maine scoffs. “I’m in the middle of a very important historical analysis—”
“Shut up, idiot,” Mike rolls his eyes. “Kell hasn’t seen the baby!”
Maine’s rant dies instantly as Mike shoves the phone at me with the particular energy of a man who hasn’t slept in weeks but has discovered religion, and suddenly I’m looking at the tiniest human I’ve ever seen. She’s red-faced and scrunched, wrapped in a blanket printed with Flyers logos.
“That’s an incredibly small person,” I say, cautiously, because although I’ve come a long way in terms of social etiquette, this is new to me.
“That’s MY incredibly small person,” Mike corrects. “Seven pounds, four ounces, and already has better hand-eye coordination than Maine.”
Maine shakes his head. “That’s statistically impossible given she can’t even focus her eyes yet.”
“She tracked my finger yesterday.” Mike pulls back the phone and pockets it. “Sophie has video.”
Sophie appears at Mike’s elbow, accepting a beer from Maya with the reverence of someone who hasn’t had alcohol in nine months. “My mom’s on babysitting duty tonight. This is my first night off in three weeks.” She raises the bottle like it’s the Stanley Cup. “Here’s to adult conversation.”
“Adult conversation is overrated,” Maya says. She’s standing close to Maine, shoulders brushing in a way that looks accidental but isn’t. “Mostly it’s just people complaining about jobs and making fun of each other’s partners.”
“I’ll take it.” Sophie shrugs. “I spent yesterday having a fifteen-minute discussion about the ideal consistency of baby poop.”
“Hey, no need to bring Nash into the conversation,” Cass laughs from beside me, trying to force her way into the conversation. “I’m Cass…”
Nice move, asshole, my brain chides me.
“Uhh, this is Cass, everyone,” I say. “If you get her drunk enough, she’ll take over the music.”
“She already did when Nash tried to put on some EDM,” Rook laughs. “She threatened to bite his fingers off.”
“He was making kissy faces at me while trying to put on EDM.” Cass shrugs. “I was establishing boundaries.”
“Through violence?” Sophie asks.
“Through implied violence. Very different energy.”
The conversation flows around me—Sophie talking about the baby, Mike launching into another photo slideshow, Maya and Cass discovering a shared appreciation for creative profanity—and the warmth of it settles into my chest like heat from a good fire.
Because for the first time I’m appreciating that this is what they built. Not just championships. This. Friendships that survived graduation. Relationships that grew stronger. A foundation solid enough to hold whatever came next.
And I’m part of it now.
Actually in.
Linc Garcia materializes from the crowd, Em tucked under his arm. “That pass, man. Pro-level vision.”
“Thanks. It was just instinct.” I try but fail to hide a smile. “Anyone could have hit it.”
“Bullshit.” He claps my shoulder. “Good instinct.”
“You! Musician, right?” Em immediately corners Cass, who looks like she’s been hit full in the face by a tsunami, which is pretty close to the truth. “OK, I’m getting married in three months! To Linc! And I need your opinion on—”
They dissolve into rapid-fire conversation about tempos and lounge atmosphere, and I watch Cass light up in a way that has nothing to do with me. It’s intimidating, watching Em’s unstoppable energy bounce off Cass’s don’t-give-a-fuck energy, but somehow they both seem to lap it up.
After a while, the alumni group breaks up and starts talking to other people, and Cass and I again drift to the back porch.