Chapter 48
I’m biting the edge of my fingernails as the stadium erupts with chaotic fans who pound against the glass and cheer for their team.
The Tornadoes are playing with their minds on fire tonight. They’re hungry for the win, determined and focused. One more period is left. One more chance to make the winning goal.
This is their night.
The Hammers look exhausted. I’m pretty sure they already know how this is going to end and they’re simply waiting for the final blow.
A roar rips through me before I can contain it. I’m on my feet with the rest of the crowd, booing as fans slam their hands into the plexiglass below me.
Griff and Buckley drop their gloves and circle one another.
What is this guy’s problem with my brother?
My nails dig into my palms. Griff can handle himself, but seeing Buckley take aim at him again has my bloodstream on fire. Buckley’s gotten into more fights than his team have attempted to score goals.
From the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Oliver and Chase go at it with two of The Hammers. It’s not polite—it never is—then Oliver’s stick drops and he turns, shoving number forty-three.
And that’s it.
Everything goes haywire.
Oliver goes feral first, blocking every swing, every cheap hit. He gets Crawford in a headlock and lands two clean punches before the refs break them apart.
The crowd roars and my head swivels from Oliver to find Chase tangling with number seventy-four. I can’t take my eyes off him. He fights like someone’s unleashed him. He’s lethal but beautiful in a way that makes my pulse trip over itself.
When they drag him away, he glances up at me, sweat dripping down his face as adrenaline clearly pumps through him. He flashes me a grin and a wink.
My bones liquefy.
Hottest. Thing. Ever.
On the jumbotron, Buckley spits blood onto the ice. Griff smirks at him, ready to go for another three rounds. Buckley lunges, but his captain yanks him back, yelling out words that look like cut the shit. Buckley doesn’t agree and flips his captain off.
I check the clock—three minutes—and the game is tied.
A grin splits my cheeks as Oliver flies down the ice. He’s a blur, closing in on the net. The goalie twitches trying to anticipate Oliver’s next move. Someone from The Hammers gains on him fast, but Oliver doesn’t flinch, doesn’t hesitate.
The crowd stays on their feet, breaths stalling all at once. Everyone thinks he’s taking the shot.
He doesn’t.
He slips the puck beautifully between his legs the exact moment he’s slammed by a defender. The puck slides across the ice, landing on Chase’s stick like this moment always belonged to him.
He fires.
The shot is clean but powerful—deadly.
The goal siren sounds, echoing throughout the stadium. I can’t even hear myself scream, but the rush surges through my veins and the whole crowd loses it.
They did it.
They’re going to the playoffs.
And my man just scored the goal that made it happen. For a second, everything—every nightmare, shadow, unanswered question—falls away. And all that’s left is pride—for him.