Chapter 24 Under Pressure （Nate）
UNDER PRESSURE (NATE)
The locker room hums with the usual pregame noise. The music is too loud, sticks are tapping, the staccato rhythm of guys gearing up for battle is overwhelming. Montreal’s barn is already shaking, and we haven’t even hit the ice yet.
I drop onto the bench, strapping my pads methodically. The ritual keeps me calm.
Finn plops down beside me, laces loose, wearing that expression that says he knows every secret I’ve ever had. Which, unfortunately, he mostly does.
“You’re wound tighter than your blocker straps, big man,” he says, elbowing me. “That got anything to do with our sugar PT lookin’ like she just got caught skippin’ church?”
I grunt, keeping my eyes on my gear. “Mind your own business, O’Reilly.”
Finn’s grin only widens. “Whole bus could smell it. You finally caught your girl.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He leans in, stage-whispering. “C’mon, one look at her, and it’s plain as day. Girl’s got that good-time shine, and you’re sittin’ here like you wrestled a gator and lived to brag about it.”
“Keep it down,” I growl. “Not everybody needs the damn memo, moron.” I tug my strap secure, lowering my tone. “Last night, she was mine. Now…she’s pulling back. I can feel it. And you ribbing her isn’t helping.”
Finn’s expression softens. He shrugs, tugging his jersey over his pads. “Maybe she just needs a minute to catch her breath.” He takes a long, too-casual sip from his water bottle. “Ran into her this mornin’, y’know.”
My head snaps toward him. “The hell you mean?”
He draws it out, savoring the moment. “Hallway. On my way to breakfast. Looked like she was sneakin’ outta someplace she sure as hell wasn’t s’posed to be. Wonder where that coulda been.”
Possessiveness spikes in my chest, sharp and immediate.
I tug my mask down, letting the cage hide my face.
Inside, though, I’m seething—not at Finn, but at the distance Eden’s forcing between us.
Ten years of silence, and I finally had her letting me back in, one inch at a time.
Now she’s already stacking bricks back up.
I get it. She’s cautious, doesn’t want whispers trailing her down the hall. But she’s too damn wrapped up in what people might think. Compared to what’s between us, all that noise doesn’t mean a thing.
She can try to ice me out again. It won’t stick this time.
The Bell Centre is chaos wrapped in cold air and red sweaters. Montreal crowds don’t sit on their hands; they ride every hit, every save, every whistle.
Normally, I thrive on it. Tonight, electricity crackles under my skin in ways that have nothing to do with hockey.
During the first TV timeout, I spot her with Coach, heads bent together, eyes flicking my way, trading quiet words. About whether I’m moving clean, about whether I’m fit. She’s watching me, all right—just not the way I want her to.
Midway through the second, I stretch wide on a rebound and feel that tug in my hip. Not sharp, but enough to light a warning flare. I smother the puck and signal to the bench.
Commercial timeout. Mattias Lindberg drifts into the crease, muttering in German as he taps both posts three times, then skates a little figure eight to “clear bad energy,” as he puts it. Kid’s good, but quirky as hell; the kind of goalie you don’t try to figure out.
Eden’s already waiting. Her professional mask is firmly in place, but her eyes rake me top to bottom before she even speaks. Coach hovers beside her, arms crossed.
She motions me against the wall, brisk. “Rotation.”
I move through it, letting her test the joint. Her hands are steady, clinical, nothing lingering, and yet I feel every second of it.
I tilt my head down, dropping my tone so only she can hear. “You put those hands on me, and I start expecting your mouth next.”
Her fingers falter, the smallest hitch in pressure.
Despite the traitorous flush rising under her skin, there’s a flicker of warning beneath the professionalism as her eyes snap to mine.
“Not here,” she hisses under her breath.
Then, in a steadier tone, “Mobility’s fine.
Finish the game, just ease up on your pushes. ”
Coach clears his throat, scribbling on his pad, oblivious.
I flash her a smile, easy and boyish, the kind I know used to undo her when we were kids. “Can’t help it.”
“Help it,” she shoots back, fierce, fingers tightening once on my hip before she steps away.
Her tone is cool again when she addresses Coach. “He’s fine.”
I skate out again, the roar of the crowd swallowing me as I drop back into the crease.
There’s no room for distraction now. The puck’s snapping around the zone, red sweaters swarming, and I lock in, glove flashing, pads sealing every gap.
My hip complains with every push, but I grit through it, refusing to give an inch.
By the time the horn blasts to end the second, sweat runs down my spine and the joint throbs. I skate off with the rest of the boys, Montreal’s crowd pounding on the glass, riding us all the way down the tunnel.
Eden’s waiting in the treatment room, gloves already snapped on. She doesn’t even look at me when I drop onto the table. Just, “Hip?” in that brisk tone that’s supposed to be neutral but grates worse than sandpaper.
“Little stiff,” I admit.
She tests the joint, rotating, pushing. Her hands are clinical, but I know better. The way she avoids my eyes, the way her breath catches when my thigh shifts under her palm, it’s all there if you know where to look.
“Funny,” I murmur, “you weren’t so detached last night.”
“You need to dial it back,” she mutters quietly. “If anyone notices—”
“They won’t.” I catch her wrist. “Don’t run from me, Trouble. We’re not kids anymore. There’s nothing wrong with us choosing each other.”
Her eyes flash, sharp enough to cut. “Easy for you to say. You’ve got nothing to lose.” She leans in, clipped and quiet. “This gig matters. If I screw it up and people start talking, it costs me more than you realize.”
Her words land. My frown deepens, but she presses on, hands firm on my hip as if grounding herself.
“If you care about me at all, you’ll dial it down when others are around.
Please. Keep this private.” Her tone is ice again when she straightens.
“Mobility’s good. Finish the game. Be smart with your pushes. ”
The door creaks open. “Knock, knock,” Finn drawls, stepping inside. His gaze sweeps the room, clocks me on the table, Eden’s hands on my hip, the air strung with tension. He raises a brow, mouth quirking. “Got a minute, Doc?”
Eden stiffens. “I’m not a doctor, O’Reilly—” She stops herself and shakes her head, realizing it isn’t worth the fight. “What’s wrong?”
“Shoulder’s barkin’ a little,” he says, rolling it once. “Figured better safe than sorry.”
She nods briskly, already snapping off one pair of gloves for another. “Table.” Finn obeys without fuss. Her focus locks onto his arm, efficient and precise, but before she turns away, her gaze flicks to mine. Barely a beat, but enough. A silent message: I meant what I said. And I’m trusting you.
I give the smallest nod, watching while she works Finn’s shoulder. He doesn’t say a word until she’s finished. She strips off her gloves and announces she’s heading to update Coach. Then she’s gone, the door closing softly behind her.
Silence stretches, then Finn rolls his shoulder. He looks at me with that familiar mischief. “Gotta hand it to you, Russo. She’s got good hands.”
I glare. “Not funny.”
“Sure it is,” he says, but then his eyes sharpen. “Women don’t get to play by the same rules as us in this business. She slips once—or hell, even looks like she did—and people’ll tear her to pieces.”
I drag a hand down my face, frustration boiling. “Yeah, I get it. But all I wanna do is stake the claim and let everybody know she’s mine.”
Finn claps my back, chuckling. “Ain’t you just a regular Tarzan.
” His expression is pure mischief. “Just keep showin’ up, big man.
Give her what she needs, and she’ll keep comin’ back for more.
” He leans in, dropping his tone to a stage whisper.
“And hey, worst case, knock her up with twins and put a ring on her. Worked out fine for me and Jessica.”
I snort and chuck a towel at his smug face. “You’re an idiot.”
He ducks it easily, still wearing that satisfied look. “Seriously though. Don’t make her choose between you and what she’s buildin’. That girl’s tougher than nails, but she shouldn’t have to prove it.”
The horn blares, summoning us back. Finn hops off the table, expression widening. “Now let’s go finish this damn game.”