24. Dash
TWENTY-FOUR
DASH
Game days start early, no matter how late the night before ran or how badly I wanted her for breakfast and not the protein bowl Elliot handed me.
By eight thirty a.m., I’m on the ice for morning skate—pucks popping off blades, coaches barking reminders we don’t need but take anyway. By ten fifteen, I’m in the training room, cooling down, stretching, getting taped where I need it. By eleven, I’m loose and ready, head locked on tonight’s game.
See, scheduled.
“Sterling,” Faulkner calls across the room, smirk sharp, “you even live at the palace anymore? Or is that just your mailing address?”
Killer grins. “Yeah, man, we’re thinking of subletting your room.”
I shake my head, towel slung around my neck. “Can’t help it if I’ve got better company.”
That gets the expected groans, but before they can really sink their teeth in, Moretti clears his throat.
“Listen up … I’m gonna propose tonight. At Icehouse. Win or lose, I want you all there after the game. Bring your girls.”
The room goes still for a beat … then erupts—whistles, claps, shouts of approval.
“Gotta win it then,” Killer says, clapping him on the back.
“Savannah’s covered,” Koa adds. “Old man Paul’s got her at my place No excuses.”
It’s all lined up—game, proposal, celebration. Just one thing left …
“Show us the ring, man.”
His expression is blank.
“You don’t just wing this shit,” Koa grumbles.
“I mean, technically, he does.” Killer chuckles.
“Fuck you.” Moretti points at him.
“All right, ease up. We got this covered like a red dress the night before a wedding.” I laugh as I ditch the towel and grab my bag. “Let’s roll. I got a replacement bed being delivered at noon.”
Faulker chuckles. “You broke her bed?”
“That ain’t shit. I stole her heart, too.”
By eleven fifteen, we’re wedged in traffic, Joel inching the SUV forward. Moretti’s in the front seat, leg bouncing like he’s about to take a face-off. Killer, Faulkner, and Koa all have their phones out, scrolling through jeweler websites, shoving options in his face.
“You’re sure tonight’s the night?” Faulkner asks.
“Positive,” Moretti mutters. “Icehouse feels right. She deserves this.”
“All right then,” Koa says, flicking through images. “Halo, solitaire, vintage. What’s Claudia’s style?”
“Simple,” Moretti says instantly. “No flash. She wouldn’t wear something gaudy.”
Killer points at a rock that looks like it could blind half of Manhattan. “So, not this one.”
The car erupts with laughter, but my eyes snag on a round solitaire, a nice-sized rock, a gold band, clean and timeless.
I tap Koa’s screen. “That. It’s perfect. She’ll wear it every day. Looks like it belongs on her already.”
Moretti studies it, swallows hard, then nods. “Yeah, that’s the one.”
Koa locks it in, confirmation screen flashing green. “Done. They’ll hold it for two hours. We’ll swing by for pickup.”
Just then, my phone buzzes.
Noelle
Bed arriving at 11:30.
That’s like in ten minutes; we’re never gonna make it in this traffic.
“Joel,” I say, leaning forward, “drop me here. I’ll hoof it to her place and beat the truck. You take these guys, grab the ring.”
Joel glances back. “You sure?”
“Positive. Bed gets delivered, ring gets picked up, game gets won, and we all make it to Icehouse.”
Moretti locks eyes with me like we’re on the ice. “Appreciate it, Sterling.”
“Don’t thank me.” I grin as I slide out. “That’s how we do shit in Bear country.”
Killer chuckles. “Look at you—running furniture deliveries while we plan proposals. You’re domesticated, man.”
I slam the door behind me, cutting into the foot traffic with a grin still tugging at my mouth. Beds, rings, a proposal, and game day. Everything’s lining up.
I slip into the store just ahead of the delivery crew, who stopped outside to see if it’s better to hoist it up through a window or carry it through the bookstore. Angie and Hildy?—yeah, I think that’s their names—are perched behind the desk, giggling like they’ve been waiting for this moment.
I look at them curiously, then lock my eyes on Noelle.
She lets out this over-the-top sigh. “Ignore them.”
From the back, a woman in her fifties’ voice rings out, “Right, just normalize finding condoms in the women’s lit section!”
That does it. Angie and Hildy dissolve into full-blown laughter. Noelle’s cheeks flush, but she still manages mock authority.
“Hush, or I’ll stop stocking your Golden Monkey black.”
The gasp that follows is dramatic enough to echo. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, I would,” she calls back, amusement in her voice.
“Gonna take a look at the stairway.” One of the delivery guys says, and we show them the way.
“Broken bed, condoms in my safe place,” another woman huffs.
“Don’t act like you’re not jealous. Do you see the onion on that one?” comes from behind us.
“It’s called a hockey ass,” Noelle corrects her, trying not to laugh.
“You sure about that? Made my eyes water,” I hear as I start up the stairs.
“Pembrooke, I’m not sure how to feel about all that,” I joke.
“Says the guy whose warm-ups can’t be shown on TV,” she smarts back.
The delivery guys roll past to check out the place, and Noelle turns to me, arms folded tight, chin tipped up. “The condom I threw?”
I lose it—bent at the waist, laughter shaking through me. “You mean, when I asked if we could ever do it without one, and you fast-balled it across the room?”
Her eyes widen. “I panicked!”
“You didn’t panic,” I say, still grinning. “You pitched . Perfect form, too. Overhand, right into the romance section. Poor Nora Roberts didn’t deserve that.”
She groans, burying her face in her hands. “It was instinct.”
“Instinct?” I mimic her throw again, laughing. “That was muscle memory. Sweets, if hockey doesn’t work out for me, I’m signing you up for the bullpen.”
She peeks at me between her fingers, laughter bubbling despite herself. “You’re the worst.”
I close the space between us, dropping my voice. “And yet, you’re still letting me in. Which makes me the luckiest bastard alive.”
She rolls her eyes, still smiling, and I tuck the memory away. Because yeah, I’ll be bringing up that condom throw for years.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I groan as I read the text.
Killer, two stalls down, doesn’t even look up from taping his stick blade, which looks like a murder weapon already and will be a splintered relic by the third period. “What’s up? She kicking you out already?”
I glare at the ceiling, like God Himself is the only one who can save him, or at least strike the stupid out of him.
“That’s not ever gonna happen. We’re like Jacob and Renesmee, without the cringy age gap shit going on.”
Killer cocks his head, tongue working the corner of his mouth as his brain tries to keep up. “Who?”
Faulker gasps. “Open a fucking book, man.”
“Or cheat and watch the movie,” Moretti adds, not even glancing over from where he’s stretching out his groin, chill as hell even when he’s proposing tonight. “Your move.”
Killer shrugs, tape tearing off with a pop. “If it’s not on Sports Net, I’m not watching it. If it’s not in the playbook, I’m not reading it.”
“Omega male energy,” I say.
“It inspired Fifty Shades ,” Foster, one of our D men, calls across the room, the only guy whose team-mandated therapy is probably working.
“That’s like porn, right?” Killer asks.
Leo Stone chuckles. “No, it’s a date night movie. You ever wanna impress a girl off the ice and out of bed? Ten out of ten recommend.”
I can’t help but imagine Killer in a tie, sweating bullets, trying to impress his future Mrs. Killer, inviting her to the Puck Palace for a romantic evening watching Fifty Shades .
Killer nods to the phone still in my hand. “If you sext her before the game, I swear to God, I’ll have Coach bench you. Shit’s bad luck.”
“Sext her?” I shake my head. “You still think chicks are into eggplants?”
He looks stubborn, as if this is a hill worth dying on. “Everyone’s into eggplants. It’s universal.”
Stone sighs. “This is why you’re single.”
“Thanksgiving plans, brought to you by Briar,” I mutter, and everyone goes silent because, these days, everyone knows a text from Briar throws me for a loop. Well, they did until Noelle.
I barely get my thumbs moving before another message pops up, and now it’s a group chat with Noelle, my sisters, her brothers, our moms, and her stepdad, all apparently in Sofie’s box with the girls. The family is all here.
“What the hell?” I laugh, and Moretti leans over to peep at the phone. “Guess the families are meeting on Turkey Day in CT.”
Kozlov, who spent last Thanksgiving in rehab, just shakes his head. “Not gonna lie, Pembrooke’s family looked like a good time in those pictures online.”
I text Noelle.
Me
You good?
Noelle
I I’m not.
I sit back, mental alarms wailing. I know her, know when she’s stalling, and this is textbook. The double I, the stilted space, the lack of punctuation. She’s nervous, and that makes me nervous, which is not a state I enjoy, especially when I’m about to play.
Noelle
I’m great!!! They are all just like you! So, of course, I adore them already. Crush it out there! MAKE IT COUNT!
I smirk. The triple exclamation points indicate that she’s genuinely excited … I hope, anyway, even though I’m not.
Me
You know I will.
I toss my phone in the locker and sit down to find my calm before the storm, even when the locker room is buzzing around me. Noise, pain, pressure, it doesn’t break me, never has.
When I open my eyes and allow the noise to creep back in, everyone is packing up their loose ends, and I feel the usual pregame adrenaline prickle under my skin, but it’s managed.
Faulker is digging into his granola bar like it’s his last meal. Killer is bench-pressing his stick for luck. Coach D walks in and nods to Leo Stone, who stands up, claps his hands, and the room goes dead silent.
“We win this, we win tomorrow, and we go into Thanksgiving with a little more to be thankful for. Everyone got that?”
The answer is a chorus of low, primal grunts that could signify agreement or readiness to strike. Stone nods, satisfied, and the room starts to move as one, the ancient ballet of athletes preparing for the slaughter.
We march down the tunnel, the echo of skates on concrete a heartbeat I’ve known since I was old enough to get on the ice.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to a thrilling night of action between our Brooklyn Bears and the Vancouver Vortex, here at Costello Arena!”
The tunnel opens onto the rink, the roar of the crowd a living, writhing beast. I step onto the ice and feel the cold bite, the glide, the possibility of violence, glory, and everything in between.
“Are you ready for some hockey?” the announcer bellows, and the crowd answers in unison, a sound that rattles my bones and makes me feel, for the briefest second, like nothing bad can touch me here. “It’s time to get loud, get on your feet, and show some love for your Brooklyn Bears!”
“Moretti.” Coach D nods to the front. “You’re up here.”
“Right.” He looks at me. “She changed shit up.”
I smile at Koa. “Plot twist.”
Koa nods. “Moretti is starting in goal, which is where he belongs. He’s put in the time.”
When Costello sent Johnson down, he pulled Hank Marshall, who Dean Costello refuses to call by name, and it caught on. Everyone calls him Williams Junior. Fucker’s good. He played with us at Lincoln.
When he skates back to us, I expect him to be a little butthurt, but he’s grinning.
“You good?” Koa asks.
“Am I good?” He laughs. “Fuck yes. I’m home, man.”
We warm up, and I stick to routine. I don’t even allow myself to look up, not yet anyway. But when the anthem begins, my eyes are on my girl; my mom next to her, smiling; my sisters already best friends with her—I can see it from here.
Mom and Noelle both point to their eyes, and then at the rink.
“What the fuck is that, man? Some synchronized focus voodoo?” Killer laughs.
I watch as they realize they’d done the same damn thing, reminding me where my head needs to be at the same time. Their heads fall back in laughter, and then they fucking hug.
“Nah, man, that’s fate and karma joining hands, or God’s way of telling me I’m where I am supposed to be.”
Koa elbows me. “She looks good in your number.”
“She certainly does.”
“Perfect,” Coach D says from behind me. “Now get your fucking head in the game, Loverboy.”
The puck is in play, and all the noise, nerves, and family drama collapse into one singular focus: win.
From the jump, Vancouver is playing dirty, elbows high and sticks higher, and Stone gets railed on jump.
Vancouver makes it clear from the first face-off that no one is leaving this game without a bruise.
Giulietti answers using his body as a human battering ram, and their center is sprawled out on the ice.
“Fucker’s gonna stay there, too,” Stone says as he skates by. He turns, skating backward, grinning with all the menace of a wolf with a fresh kill. “Am I right, or am I right?”
“You tell no lies, Stone!” I shout back.
He then slashes his stick through the ice, and it’s fucking on.
Second period is a blur of hits and near-misses, my lungs burning and my blood singing.
I can hear Koa narrating our play-by-plays under his breath, a running commentary of the sickest chirps you’ll ever hear, and it’s working because I see their left wing bite on the fifth one, hack him in the ribs, and get sent to the box.
Rivera goes center and then left, takes the pass, and feeds it across to me, because no one expects it, and for a split-second, the world is just the puck, the net, and the pulse in my fingertips. I snap it, top shelf, clean past their goalie’s glove.
The horn blares, the bench erupts, and I raise my hands, not even bothering to hide the shit-eating grin on my face as we change shifts.
Back on the bench, Koa slams his helmet against mine, hard enough to shift my vision. “That’s what I’m talking about!”