Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
Alberto
Third period. Tied game. And the Cobras have lost whatever thin excuse they used to call themselves “competitive.”
They’ve been taking runs at Cally since the opening faceoff—late bumps, extra slashes, sticks that somehow always “slip” up into ribs or wrists when the ref’s sightline is blocked. It’s not subtle, and it pisses me off in a way that makes my teeth hurt.
Because Cally is the reason we’re still alive in this game, and Colorado’s response to that is to try to break him like he’s a machine they can disable.
They used to be teammates. Now they’re trying to ruin him in front of a sold-out arena and a national broadcast.
I track the puck and I track the hits, my gaze snapping between the play and the cheap shots like I can will the officials into seeing what they’re ignoring. My hands flex inside my gloves, restless. My legs bounce with that caged energy goalies live on—half patience, half violence, all control.
The problem is: I can’t go do what my body wants to do.
I could skate out and rearrange someone’s face. I could. I’m big enough, fast enough, angry enough.
But I’m the last line. If I leave my crease, I leave my team. If I drop the gloves, I give Colorado exactly what they want: me in the box, my head out of the game, their shooters licking their lips at my backup.
And it’s not just a penalty. It’s a statement to the league. Goalies don’t get to be enforcers without paying for it later—fines, suspensions, headlines.
They fuck with me too, of course. That’s standard.
That’s how teams try to crack you. They crash the crease harder.
They shoot from angles that don’t make sense unless the point is to create garbage rebounds.
They go wraparound just to force me to scramble, just to get my pads out of position, just to make me look human.
Their fans chant my name like it’s an insult.
Wade.
Wade.
Wade.
They draw it out, trying to make it ugly, trying to make it personal, trying to wedge it under my skin.
I let it hit the mask and slide off.
I tell myself one thing, over and over: See it. Stop it. Reset.
Cally takes another hit along the boards—late enough that my entire body surges forward. I’m halfway out of my stance before I force myself back down, back into structure, back into being the thing my team needs.
My jaw clenches. My vision narrows.
If they touch him again . . . fuck, there’s nothing I can do.
The puck kicks loose near the red line.
And Cally . . . Cally turns.
It happens fast, like he flips a switch in his head from survive to punish them.
He steals it with a move that looks like arrogance and is actually just math—stick lift, pivot, acceleration. One second the Cobras think they’re setting up pressure, the next he’s past them, cutting through open ice as if it belongs to him.
He’s gone.
Skating in alone.
And the whole arena rises.
As if they’re about to watch my execution from the other end of the rink, like they’re already picturing the highlight replay of him getting stuffed, him getting humbled, him getting taught a lesson for daring to be good.
I hold my breath without meaning to, eyes locked on him.
He closes in, hands soft on the stick, shoulders loose, like he’s out for a Sunday skate. The goalie squares up, confident, probably thinking Cally will go glove side because that’s what the scouting report says.
Cally shifts his hips at the last second.
Goes five-hole.
The puck snaps through.
Back of the net.
And for one beat—one gorgeous beat—the building doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Their goal horn stays dead. Their crowd freezes in disbelief, then erupts into boos so loud it sounds like weather.
Cally doesn’t celebrate like a normal person. Of course he doesn’t. He glides past the net, turns his head, and points his stick at me.
Me.
Not the bench. Not the crowd.
Me.
It’s as if he’s saying, That one’s yours, babe.
Something in my ribs tightens. Something bright and feral and intimate, like he just reached across a full sheet of ice and grabbed me by the collar.
I can’t answer him. My face is trapped behind the mask. My mouth is trapped behind discipline.
So I give him the only thing I can: a single nod.
Finish it.
We do.
One more save. One more ugly scramble in front of my crease, bodies crashing and sticks hacking and the puck skittering loose in a tangle of skates. I drop, seal the ice, feel it hit my pad, feel the rebound die under me.
Whistle.
Faceoff.
Colorado pulls their goalie.
Six-on-five.
The puck moves like a threat, zipping point to half wall to bumper, every pass a new attempt to pry me open.
Every shot lane feels engineered to make me second-guess my own eyes.
Their bench is screaming. Their crowd is standing.
And all I can hear inside my mask is my own breath—measured, controlled—because that’s the only thing I’m allowed to own right now.
Every pass is a question: Are you really that good? Can you really hold?
I track. I shift. I push.
A one-timer rips through traffic and I drop with it, pad sealing the ice. The puck stings my leg and kicks out. Bodies crash into my crease, sticks hacking, skates scraping, and I want to start swinging my blocker like a weapon—but I don’t. I stay locked in. I stay in my lane. I stay the last line.
Another shot—high tip—glove up. I catch it clean and the whistle blows and the building groans like it’s personally offended I exist.
Faceoff.
They keep the extra attacker out.
And as the linesmen set the puck, I look down the ice and see Cally hovering near the far blue line, hunting. He’s not coasting. He’s reading. Waiting for one mistake, one lazy pass, one moment of desperation that turns into a gift.
The puck drops.
Colorado wins it clean, cycles fast, tries to drag us out of shape. A pass slides to the point. Shot. Blocked. Rebound pops loose and skitters toward the boards.
Cally moves first.
He angles his stick, steals the puck off a Cobra’s blade like he’s taking something back that never should’ve been touched, and then he’s gone, already turning up-ice.
The crowd’s roar spikes—hope, hunger, belief—and then it starts to die when they realize what’s happening.
Cally hits center. Looks up once. The empty net waits at the far end like an open mouth.
He could take the safe play. Dump it deep. Kill time.
He doesn’t.
Because Cally doesn’t do safe when he can do final.
He winds up at the red line and snaps it.
The puck travels the length of the ice—clean, true, a straight line through thirty thousand people holding their breath—and it slides into the empty net with a soft, brutal little tuck that feels louder than any goal horn.
For half a second, there’s nothing.
Then our bench detonates.
Their crowd turns into a wall of sound—boos, fury, disbelief—because that goal isn’t just insurance.
It’s humiliation.
It’s Cally standing in the middle of their arena and telling them, You tried. You failed. Watch us leave.
He lifts his stick once, not even celebrating so much as underlining the point, and my chest burns with pride I don’t know what to do with. My whole body hums, adrenaline still high, anger still simmering, and now there’s something else threaded through it—something possessive and primal.
That’s my teammate.
That’s my partner.
That’s the man they’ve been trying to hurt all night, and he just wrote the ending anyway.
We reset for the next faceoff with a two-goal lead and thirty-something seconds left, and Colorado still tries to crash, still tries to make noise, still tries to get under my skin.
But it’s too late.
The air has changed.
They’re chasing a train that already left the station.
I make one more save—simple, clean—swallow the rebound and freeze it, and the ref’s whistle slices through the last of their hope.
The final horn rips through the arena.
And relief hits like a punch.
Our bench empties. The guys pour onto the ice, a rush of bodies and gloves and joy, and for a second I’m swallowed by it—by noise and heat and the blunt truth that we did it.
We beat Colorado.
Then we get down the tunnel and the air changes.
The roar becomes muffled behind concrete. The smell shifts—sweat, tape, rubber, that metallic bite of adrenaline that doesn’t leave your bloodstream even when the game is over.
The hallway is narrow. Bright lights. Nowhere to hide.
Cally walks beside me, still in gear, cheeks flushed, hair damp, grin wide like he stole something and got away clean.
“You see that?” he says, buzzing. “They hated it.”
I glance at him. “You love being hated.”
“I love winning and saying . . . in your fucking face,” he corrects, then his voice drops, softer, threaded with something that isn’t performance. “You okay?”
The question lands different here, away from the crowd, away from the rink where we’re supposed to be indestructible.
I nod once. Then I turn it back on him because I’m not built for softness without a fight. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”
Cally’s grin fades just enough for the truth to show through. “They tried,” he says. “They didn’t get what they wanted.”
My hands curl again inside my glove.
In the locker room, it’s a storm—guys shouting, laughing, replaying the goal like it’s a holy text. A towel flies. Someone blasts music. The trainer weaves through bodies with the resigned expression of a man who has seen everything and is still underpaid.
Coach gives a short speech about grit, focus, playoffs.
Then Mills Aldridge walks in.
And the room shifts, because owners always change the air. Not because they’re loud. Because they don’t have to be.
Mills doesn’t look like a billionaire who needs worship. He looks like someone who understands exactly what this team means to the city—and refuses to be the guy who ruins it.
He claps once. “Hell of a win. We’re headed to the playoffs.”
The guys erupt, loud and proud, pounding sticks and lockers.
Mills’s gaze finds me, then Cally. A small nod. Approval, measured.
Then he says, casual, as if he’s talking about travel schedules, “Quick reminder. We treat everyone here like professionals. You protect your teammates on the ice and outside.”
His eyes slide to Cally—giving him the floor.
Cally clears his throat.
And I feel it in my gut before he even speaks: this is not about hockey.
“You might hear some noise about my private life,” Cally says, voice calm, but his shoulders tighten, and I know him well enough to recognize what he’s doing—choosing honesty over letting someone else control the story.
“My family likes to . . . air things out when they want leverage. When they want to fuck with whoever steps out of line.”
He pauses.
Then he looks at me.
“So yeah,” he says, and his voice steadies on the edge of something real, “I’m dating Alberto ‘Monty’ Wade. We’re in a relationship with the best woman in the world.” Another beat. “We’re not here to bring bad press to a franchise that’s welcomed us. We’re here to win. And to live our lives.”
There’s a second where the room is silent—not judging, not laughing, just absorbing.
Santos is the first one to move. He steps in and pats Cally’s shoulder. “You’re safe here,” he says simply. “Need anything, you tell us.”
A couple guys nod. Someone mutters, “Hell yeah,” like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Santos smirks. “I’ll give you my husband’s number. Our PR is pretty good at handling . . . problems.” His grin turns wicked. “And deleting digital footprints.”
A laugh breaks through the tension.
Mills looks at me again—direct, not cold—and I feel seen in a way I didn’t expect from a man who signs checks.
“This organization has your backs,” he says. “Do your jobs, take care of each other, and let us handle the rest.”
Then he turns to the room. “Good win. Get some rest. Tomorrow we fly home.”
He leaves.
The noise returns—louder now, like everyone needed permission to exhale.
But Cally’s words stick to my skin.
And then, because Cally has never been built for subtlety, he grabs my jersey and kisses me.
Hard.
His mouth is hot, insistent, triumphant—like he’s still on that breakaway and he’s decided he’s not missing.
Someone whoops. Someone laughs. Someone starts chanting something obscene.
Cally breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead to mine, eyes bright, voice low.
“Good game, babe,” he murmurs. “Let’s shower and get out of here.”
My heart is kicking like it wants to crawl out of my ribcage.
I should push him off. I should keep this locked down. I should remember the cameras, the headlines, the way the world loves to turn love into a punchline.
Instead I grab his shoulder pads and pull him back in.
Because I’m a goalie.
I can take a hit.
And I’m done letting anyone else decide what’s mine.