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And then it happened.

I saw the hit coming before it connected, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. Lincoln was in the corner, battling for the puck, his focus so locked in that he didn’t see the Tampa player barreling toward him. The hit landed high, slamming into Lincoln’s shoulder and sending him crashing into the boards with a sickening thud.

Everything slowed down for a second. The crowd gasped. The refs blew the whistle. But all I could focus on was the sound of Lincoln hitting the ice and the way he didn’t get back up right away.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath, skating toward him, but I already knew something was wrong. He wasn’t moving like he normally did, his face twisted in pain as he pushed himself up.

“Golden Boy, you good?” Ari called out, his voice tight.

Trainers were on the ice in a heartbeat, helping him to his feet. He tried to shrug them off, but he grimaced as he tried to stand on his left ankle.

“Get off the ice, Linc,” I said, skating up next to him, my voice quieter now. “Don’t push it.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head, clearly pissed but in too much pain to argue. He turned toward the bench, hobbling away with the trainers on either side of him, while the rest of us stood there, trying to pretend like this wasn’t as bad as it felt.

The rest of the game felt like a blur. Without him, it was like the wind got knocked out of us. Every play felt harder, every shift slower. Tampa knew it too. They smelled blood in the water and started hammering us, taking advantage of every missed opportunity—every mistake we made.

Hockey is a momentum sport. I would argue more than any other, and the momentum had turned in Tampa’s favor. We played catch-up the rest of the game. No matter how hard we pushed, we couldn’t find the net.

By the time the final buzzer sounded, we were down by two goals. The crowd was quiet, a low murmur of disappointment filling the air as we skated off the ice.

In the locker room, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. After getting railed by the coaching staff, I pulled out my phone and saw a text from my dad.

Dad: That was an embarrassment.

I growled and chucked my phone to the floor.

“Chin up. Linc’s got a sprain, but he’ll be back…at the very least for Game Seven,” said Ari, plopping into a chair beside me.

“If we even make it to Game Seven,” I grumbled, pushing my wet hair out of my face.

“None of that,” said Ari, patting me on the shoulder. “It’s not over, ’til it’s over.”

“That’s the best you’ve got?” I asked glumly. “Because if that was supposed to be motivating, it sucked.”

“I can quote you theRemember the Titansspeech,” Walker offered.

Ari grinned at that one for some reason—probably some inside joke from before my time. I hated those.

“He’s really good at that one,” said Ari.

“Maybe next time,” I drawled, still a Sad Sally as I got up and grabbed my bag.

“Pretty sure there’s a gorgeous girl out in the hallway who’ll make you feel better,” Ari said with a slow grin as he wiggled his eyebrows up and down. “Hopefully she can fix your head. Give you a littlecan-doattitude, if you know what I mean.”

That made me perk up. I decided right then and there that only one thing could make me feel better after a game like that.

A second date…that ended in my bed.

“Don’t call her gorgeous,” I snarled at Ari as I walked to the door.

“So touchy,” I heard Ari say right before the door closed behind me.

But I forgot about everything else when I saw Sloane leaning against the wall a little down the hall, looking adorably awkward about being there.

She saw me, and a small, sexy smile slid across her lips.

“Hi, Calloway,” I murmured as I brushed a kiss against her mouth. “You in love with me yet?”