Chapter Thirteen Harrison #2
“Of course she brought glitter,” Oliver mutters beside me.
“Why wouldn’t she?” August asks, amused and totally in love as he watches her. “It’s only the NHL. Totally normal.” He beams proudly like this is the best moment of his entire week.
Lumin pumps both gloved fists at the crowd, then points her giant fuzzy face right at our bench. She gives a little shimmy—her signature move—then pantomimes ripping open a shirt like Superman. The crowd roars.
“God, I love her,” August says, hand over his heart.
We all laugh, but honestly? We all love her. She’s the perfect person to be our team’s mascot. The energy she brings is unreal. She skates to the blue line and waves her wand dramatically toward the tunnel where we’re waiting to take the ice.
A spotlight hits the tunnel entrance and the announcer booms, “Aaaand now, here they are, YOUR ANAHEIM STAAAARS!”
Fire cannons shoot sparks. Lumin points at us like a general sending her troops into battle and damn, my heart is sprinting.
This is it.
Game time.
The puck drops, and the game kicks into high gear.
I skate hard, focusing on every play, every movement on the ice.
The adrenaline courses through me like fire, and I find my rhythm, letting instinct take over.
It’s what I was born to do, where I feel most alive, except this time, there’s something more grounding, something deeper guiding me through this game.
I feel the energy of the ice beneath my skates as I move, the sounds of sticks clashing and skates carving lines into the surface mingling with the roars of the crowd.
Each play builds on the last, and I’m in the zone, fully immersed in the game.
But it’s hard to ignore the knowledge that this is the first time Connor is watching me play live, his tiny face pressed against the glass.
It’s like having a punch of adrenaline firing through my veins, fueling my every stride.
I catch a glimpse of him amidst the whirlwind of bodies and colors, wearing my jersey, looking like he belongs right here with me on this ice.
If the energy of the arena was electric before, now it’s a full-on storm.
Connor bounces up and down, fist pumping the air after a good play.
And every time I glance in his direction, it reignites something deep inside me, a fierce need to show him what it means to be a part of this world.
Cincinnati makes cheap shots every chance they get but we’re matching their intensity shift for shift. Griffin gets into it with their winger. Barrett makes a save so wild the entire arena loses its mind. I block a shot with my thigh that’s going to bruise in colors I don’t even have names for.
Every time I slam into the boards near our side, I hear Connor yell, “LET’S GO STARS!”
Every time I look up, Harper is there, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, hands clasped together like she’s trying not to scream.
We’re halfway through the second period, tied 1–1, bodies already bruised and breath fogging in the cold air as I lean over the boards waiting for my shift.
The Scavengers are playing dirty tonight, , late hits, the usual garbage.
It’s the kind of hockey that makes my adrenaline spike and my vision sharpen, especially when they’re going after certain players.
Roche can hold his own, we all know that, but that doesn’t mean he deserves the gang-up.
From behind us, Coach shouts, “Meers, Ollenberg, Blackstone, go.”
I vault over the boards, blades hitting the ice clean, and force my brain into that narrow, ruthless tunnel where all that exists is the puck and the play.
But as we cycle through the neutral zone, something pulls my attention like a tug in my chest.
Front row.
It’s Harper.
She’s leaning forward, her eyes locked on me. Antoni and Connor are beside her, but she’s the only one I see. And then…holy shit.
She does it.
The signal.
Two taps to her heart, one to the glass.
Tap-tap…touch.
My breath catches so fast it almost knocks the wind out of me.
Jesus, fuck.
I haven’t seen that hand signal in ten years.
Back in college she used to do it every single game. When I was rattled, or pissed, or in my head. It meant I’m here. I’ve got you. You’re not alone.
I didn’t realize how much I’d forgotten it, how much I’d buried it, until she does it now, like no time has passed at all.
My lungs tighten and the ice tilts for half a second.
She’s smiling at me. It’s the kind of smile you give someone when you know them, really know them. When you remember everything, even the parts you thought were long gone.
And fuck me, I feel nineteen again. Or twenty. Or whatever age I was when loving her was easy and breathing without her wasn’t.
Connor bangs the glass next to her, shouting something in my direction, but all I hear is the thud of my heartbeat and then, “Yo, Harrison!” Griffin shouts as the puck whips toward me.
I snap back in, catching it clean off my stick and pushing up the boards. My body moves automatically, years of muscle memory doing the work while my brain vibrates with something raw and alive.
I risk one more glance.
She’s still watching.
Still smiling.
Still tapping her heart twice before pressing her fingers to the glass.
This time, I nod. Just barely.
But I know she sees it.
I know she feels it.
And suddenly, I’m flying.
Every stride is sharper. Every check harder. Every pass cleaner. I’m playing like I’ve got fire in my veins and oxygen has a name.
Harper Richardson.
And when I make a dive to break up a Scavengers’ rush—stick extended, body sliding across the ice—it’s her voice I hear cheering before the whole arena erupts.
Tap-tap, touch.
Yeah. She’s here.
And I’ve got her too.
The third period ends tied. The Scavengers miss a last-second shot by an inch. The place is shaking as we collapse onto the bench breathing like we’ve run a marathon.
“OT, boys,” our coach declares. “Let’s finish it!”
My whole-body thrums. Connor is probably losing his mind behind the glass. I can almost hear him now.
We hit the ice again and one minute in August turns over the puck.
“Fuck!” My stomach drops. Scavengers take it the other way and fast. Too fast.
Thank God Ledger steals it with a poke check that should be illegal for being that beautiful. He fires it up the boards. Oliver catches it, taps it to me, and well, hell…
Suddenly it’s just open ice.
I sprint down the ice until I’ve got the perfect placement, knowing everything I’m about to do seems serendipitous so I fucking go for it. Just as I taught Connor to do in his lessons, I rotate my body, performing my trick turn just before I shoot the puck toward the net.
The puck rockets off my stick and then there’s a split-second of silence.
And then…
GOAL!
The red-light flashes. The horn blasts and my ears ring as the arena explodes around us. Our bench empties and my teammates swarm me, helmets slamming, arms squeezing, Oliver yelling, “THAT’S WHAT I’M TALKING ABOUT!” right into my ear.
I laugh, breathless, my heart pounding, every muscle in me buzzing.
And somewhere above the chaos, Connor is jumping so hard Antoni has to grab him by the back of his hoodie. Harper’s on her feet, hands to her mouth, eyes shining bright enough to blind me.
Holy hell. I love this feeling.
The press room is still vibrating with leftover adrenaline from the overtime win. Cameras flash, reporters chatter, and my heartbeat is only just falling out of game-mode.
But my mind isn’t anywhere in this room.
It’s down the hallway waiting to see whether Harper texted back.
Waiting to see whether she’s actually going to come.
I keep shifting my phone in my hand under the table like a teenager hiding contraband but there’s nothing yet. Just the read receipt on the single message I sent.
Me
Locker room hallway after the game. Just show security your pass. Connor will love it.
I’ll love it too.
Coach finishes talking, and suddenly the spotlight shifts to me.
“Questions for Harrison?”
A dozen hands shoot up, but there’s one I recognize immediately. Blakely Rivers, front row, sharp blazer and even sharper eyes.
Of course.
“Meers,” she says, already half-smiling like she knows she’s about to make me work for this. “Walk us through that final sequence in overtime. You passed up a clear shooting lane and went rogue with a little trick play. Was that instinct? Or were you reading the defense?”
Normally, I love this stuff. I can break down a play for hours. But right now, I’m painfully aware of the fact that every second I spend talking is a second Harper could decide this was a mistake and walk right out of the arena without seeing me.
“Uh—” I clear my throat and force my hand off my phone. “Yeah. They were collapsing their coverage on my side. I knew if I waited half a beat and shot straight, their defense would bite so it was just rhythm, really.”
Way too many words. I need this to go faster.
Blakely tilts her head. “So, you’re saying it wasn’t planned?”
“Right,” I say immediately. “Not planned.”
She raises a brow like she’s surprised I haven’t gone into a ten-minute explanation. “Okay… then—”
My phone buzzes.
My pulse leaps. I force myself not to look yet, because I know the second I do, my expression will give me away.
Blakely continues, “Can you comment on the team’s momentum shift after the second intermission? What changed?”
“We—uh—” I blink, brain stalling. “Talked. Reset. Cleaned up our structure. And Cunningham reminded us all he hates the Scavengers more than he hates conditioning skates.”
A laugh rolls through the room. Blakely squints at me.
“Are you…in a hurry?” she asks, suspicion narrowing her gaze.
Absolutely.
Completely.
Desperately.
“No,” I lie. “Just still riding the adrenaline.”