Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Hailey
When It’s Time to Cover The Net
The roar of thousands of people crashes over me, a tidal wave of noise that rattles my ribs, thick and electric. It surges through my body, fizzes in my blood, sets my pulse on fire.
Holy shit.
Leif Crawford just blocked a shot during a penalty kill, and I am feral about it.
I shove up from my seat, hands clenched in my sleeves, screaming like I personally had something to do with his ridiculous reflexes. Around me, the crowd explodes, the arena vibrating with energy. People are shouting, chanting, throwing their hands in the air—an entire city coming unglued.
And me?
I am standing on my seat, hands in the air, my belly bumping the railing as I yell, “That’s my man.”
John snorts beside me, dragging me down before I can cause an actual scene. “Jesus, Hailey, sit before you go into labor.”
I ignore him, still buzzing, my hands pressing against my belly, where my darling girl is currently tap-dancing on my bladder. Probably her way to celebrate daddy.
“She’s already a hockey fan,” John teases, nodding toward my stomach.
Mathieu grins, shaking his head. “How are you feeling? I know you said you’re fine, but these last eight weeks can be a lot.”
I sigh, resisting the urge to roll my eyes at their dad-ing while I shift slightly, trying to get comfortable in my seat. “I’m fine. Swollen, uncomfortable, close to incapable of seeing my feet—but fine.”
Mathieu gives me a knowing look. “We might not have carried any children, but our surrogates had a really hard time the last trimester—Crawford babies are always big.”
I hesitate, wanting to remind them that while this baby is as much Leif’s as she is mine, she doesn’t have Crawford genetics. But I don’t say it. Because at the end of the day, she is a Crawford. Maybe not by blood, but in every other way that counts.
Mathieu leans in, smirking. “Maybe the better question—has she learned to block shots yet? Girls are good at hockey too.”
I rub my stomach, grinning. “She better not be blocking shots, because her dad has that covered.”
And he does. Down on the ice, in the center of all the fury and motion, stands Leif Crawford—the only thing between the net and destruction. My breath catches, my focus locking in on him the way it always does.
His stance is wide, shoulders squared, pads swallowing him up. He’s all precision and control, tracking the puck with a stillness that should be impossible. The storm rages around him—sticks clashing, skates cutting into ice, bodies slamming into boards—but Leif? He’s locked in. Unshakable.
He’s there. Waiting.
The game is tied, the third period winding down, and the energy inside Madison Square Garden is feverish. My heart pounds.
And yeah, part of it is nerves. Part of it is watching Leif do what he was born to do, watching him thrive in the eye of the storm, commanding the space around him in a way that makes it impossible to look away.
But the other part?
The part that’s purely female, purely mine?
That part is turned on as fuck.
Because there’s just something about him like this. Something about watching him move, that focused intensity in his eyes, that quiet command of everything around him. The confidence, the control, the way he’s so completely in his element, owning the moment like it belongs to him.
Like I belong to him. A full-body shiver rolls through me, and I squeeze my thighs together instinctively.
“Are you getting hot?” John asks, frowning when I fan myself. “We can get you some water, maybe step out for a minute?—”
I wave him off, trying so hard to look normal. “Nope, totally fine. Just—hormones.”
John eyes me. “You’ll tell us if you need something, right?”
I nod because what else can I tell him? That I want to ride his son like a cowgirl? Nope. That’s not the kind of conversation one has with their in-laws. Even if we have a really close relationship.
I press my hands to my belly, trying to refocus, trying to not think about how good Leif looks when he’s dialed in like this. But then—then he makes another save, dropping into a perfect butterfly, his glove snapping out to rob a shot that should have made it past him.
The arena erupts.
And I—I am unwell.
Leif pops back up, resets, completely unfazed, his mask tilting in my direction just slightly. Like he knows. Like he can feel me watching. And goddamn it, I think he’s smirking under that mask.
A cocky, infuriating, panty-dropping smirk he gives me at home. The one that says I see you, Hailey. I know exactly what you’re thinking. And I’ll fuck you until you can’t think straight. I groan, sinking into my seat, pressing my forehead to the railing.
John leans in, brow raised. “You okay?”
I shake my head. “No, John. I’m not okay.”
He squints. “Are you in labor? Should we call an ambulance?” He pulls out his phone.
“Worse.” I lift my head, sighing dramatically. “I am so goddamn turned on right now, it’s humiliating. Your son is working and I can’t ask him to take care of me now, can I?”
John makes a strangled noise. Mathieu bursts out laughing.
And on the ice, Leif makes another save—his glove snapping shut with the kind of effortless dominance that should not make my thighs clench this hard.
Jesus, I’m so screwed.
Mathieu and John are on edge, leaning forward like they’re on the damn bench themselves. It’s easy to forget these men weren’t just Leif’s dads—they were athletes before him. Champions. Legends.
And they feel every second of this game as deeply as he does.
“Come on, baby,” I murmur under my breath, my heart hammering.
Leif knows I’m here. He always does. I don’t know how, but he’s always aware of me in the stands, even when he’s locked into a game, even when there’s no room for distractions.
Like last time, when he made a ridiculous glove save in overtime, then flashed a smirk at me through his mask as if he’d just done something as casual as tying his skates.
Or when he checked the jumbotron mid-period during warm-ups, searching the crowd, relaxing only when he found me.
Or—my personal favorite—when he got into a goalie fight after some asshole crashed into the crease, and later, when I asked if he lost his mind, he just grinned and said, “He got too close to my girls.”
Yeah. He’s ridiculous like that, and sweet. He loves his girls and is protective of them.
Down on the ice, the game surges forward. A bad turnover at the blue line sends the opposing center flying in on a breakaway—a straight shot, one-on-one with Leif.
The entire arena sucks in a breath.
I stop breathing altogether.
The forward dekes left, right, a blur of speed and intent—but Leif is already there, reading him before he even takes the shot.
And when he moves?
It’s poetry.
He drops low, kicks out his pad, sealing off the bottom corner with impossible precision—and just like that, the puck deflects away, swallowed up into his glove.
A flawless save.
The Garden erupts.
I exhale shakily, a mix of relief and absolute pride swelling inside me.
Next to me, Mathieu is already on his feet, grinning ear to ear. “That’s my boy.”
John nods in agreement, arms crossed, but his eyes shine with something deeper. “He makes it look easy.”
It’s not easy. I know that. I know how many hours Leif pours into this. The grueling schedule. The bruises. The sheer mental and physical warzone that is being a goalie in the NHL.
But he loves it. And I love him.
And watching him out there? Knowing he’s fighting for something bigger than just a win?
It does something to me.
I glance at the game clock—one minute left. Still tied.
Then, everything explodes.
A loose puck in the neutral zone turns into a mad scramble—sticks clashing, skates digging into the ice. The Vipers gain control, driving forward. The tension snaps as their winger fires a shot from the hash marks—a missile straight to the top corner.
It hits the back of the net.
Goal.
The arena detonates. Leif’s teammates swarm each other, the goal horn blaring, the fans on their feet, screaming.
But me?
I’m not watching the celebration.
I’m watching him.
Leif skates forward, watching the final seconds tick down, his entire body coiled and unshakable. The puck drops at center ice, a last-ditch effort from the other team, but the Vipers shut it down.
The buzzer sounds.
They win.
And right away, Leif looks for me. His mask tilts up slightly, just enough for me to catch his eyes through the cage. Even from here, even with an entire arena screaming around us, I feel it—the connection. It’s just us for one second.
Then, just before his teammates mob him in celebration, Leif does something so small that no one but me would ever notice.
He taps his chest once, then points—right at me. Like always. Like he’s telling me, This? This is for you, for my girls.
And I swear, I fall in love with him all over again.