Page 108

“Play, play, play, play, play!” Ari shouted, pointing at Lincoln, who was trying very hard to look disinterested but was tapping his foot anyway.

“Stop pretending you don’t like it!” Ari hollered at Lincoln, who rolled his eyes but finally cracked a grin.

“Fine,” Lincoln muttered, starting to shake his ass.

Ari grabbed Lincoln’s hand and spun him abruptly around like they were in a ballroom competition. Lincoln stumbled, his face turning red, but instead of yelling, he actually laughed—a rare sound that made everyone pause for half a second before bursting into cheers.

The door opened.

Coach Porter stepped in, clipboard in hand, and froze mid-step. The music was still blasting, and Ari had just attempted a jump-split that ended with him sprawled on the floor.

Coach surveyed the room like a general inspecting a battlefield, his face utterly blank. Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “This is the team I’m taking into Game Seven?”

“Yes, sir!” Ari shouted from the floor, offering a thumbs-up.

Coach shook his head, muttering something about “fucking embarrassments.”

Lincoln straightened up, smoothing his jersey like he hadn’t just been twirled across the room. “We’ve got this, Coach.”

Coach’s gaze swept over us, his lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh. “Let’s fucking hope so.”

The intensity of the room suddenly snapped up, like the combination of Lincoln’s speech and Ari’s…stress reliever had magical powers. We were all ready to go.

“As my darling, angel-poo of a wife says, ‘It’s only weird if it doesn’t work,’ Coach,” Ari offered as we lined up to walk down the tunnel.

Coach Porter shook his head.

“I don’t think she was the one who came up with that,” Camden muttered.

There was a smile on my lips as we headed toward the ice. And my nerves…they were nowhere to be found.

CHAPTER27

LOGAN

The roar of the crowd surrounded us, overwhelming and all-encompassing. I glanced over at Sloane to distract myself from the fact that I was about to play the biggest game of my life. You dream about making the Stanley Cup Finals when you’re a little kid. But doing it in my first year in the league…I’d never imagined this.

She was wearing theStanley Cupcakeshirt again, and despite my nerves…and where I was at…my dick tightened just remembering what we’d done the last time she’d worn that shirt.

I definitely needed a repeat of that.

“You complete me,” I mouthed to her, grinning as she blushed.

“Crazy,” she mouthed back.

We lined up for the opening faceoff, and I shot a glance at Lincoln. His eyes were locked in, laser-focused.

Sixty minutes to leave everything on the ice.

I could do this.

“Let’s go, boys,” Lincoln muttered, gripping his stick tighter. “This is our night.”

The puck dropped, and we took off. Every shift felt like a fight for survival—scrambling for space, clawing for control. Tampa was quick and aggressive, but we matched them step for step. Ari and Camden were our anchors on defense, fucking wrecking balls. They didn’t just block shots; they demolished any Tampa player that dared to take one.

One of their top guys came streaking down the wing, obviously thinking he had a clear lane. Ari leveled him into the boards with a hit so brutal, a ripple of “oohs” swept through the stands.

“Hey, Tony, my left nut dangles better than you,” Ari quipped as Tampa’s forward staggered back to his bench.