Page 124 of Brooklynaire

It will be hours before we learn that some lucky photographer snapped a photo at that very second. On newspapers everywhere we’ll stare out, bug-eyed, like a pair of derangedMuppets.

And neither of us will care much, either. Because the shot bounces off the pipes, denying us the goal that would have put us in thelead.

The buzzer sounds on the third period of a tie game, and Becca and I are clutching each other. She slides back in her seat and exhales, but I don’t even want to relax before the overtime period. The adrenaline rush isintoxicating.

I love this. Every second. I’m strapped into this roller coaster and I never want it toend.

My palm goes to a certain little box in the pocket of my jacket. It’s there, waiting for me. I am not entirely sure that tonight will offer up the right moment for this maneuver. But Rebecca is the right woman and I know I’m not going to wait very muchlonger.

Everything dear to me is on the line right now. Everything. And I wouldn’t change athing.

Lauren leans over the two of us, putting a hand on my shoulder. “Check your phone, Nate. Alex is trying to reachyou.”

Rebecca’s eyes widen immediately. She’s flushed from the excitement of the game, her lips pink and kissable. “Whip it out,” she whispers. “Let’s see what she has tosay.”

I catch her smooth chin in my hand. “You know I love you,right?”

She smiles, and I stroke her lip with my thumb. “I know, bossman. Just look at the damnedtext.”

Reluctantly I remove my phone from a pocket and unlock it. I touch the messaging app, wondering if I’ll always remember this as the moment when I learned I’d become afather.

Alex: No relationship. You’re off the hook. My love toBecca.

“Well,” Becca says quietly. “PoorAlex.”

I wrap an arm around her, because that’s a generous thing to say, and also because I can’t stop touching her. “Sorry for thatdrama.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “Your mom is texting you,too.”

I’d noticed that as well. “She’s watching the game,” I say, stowing my phone. “I’ll get the mom download later. Want adrink?”

“Sure!” She flashes me a smile. “I’ll havewhatever.”

I get up and find us a couple of sodas. It’s tempting to go downstairs and listen to Coach’s locker-room speech, and get a feel for his overtime strategy. Except I don’t want to be that guy. It’s not the owner’s job to stick his nosein.

Rebecca is chatting up Stew when I return. I watch her animated face as she talks hockey with my best friend. He looks almost as keyed up as Iam.

I hate the idea of Becca quitting the Bruisers. I barely slept last night, thinking about it. I lay there in bed, listening to Becca’s deep and even breathing, and wondering how to fix the mess I was in. Or part of it,anyway.

Around dawn I found the answer, and it was so simple I felt like an idiot for not getting there sooner. If Becca couldn’t feel right working for a team I owned, there was one easy way I could fixthat.

We’re going to have a chat about it later. She just doesn’t know ityet.

I hand her asoda.

“Where’s mine?” Stewdemands.

I point at the well-stocked bar table and he rolls his eyes before getting up to helphimself.

Play resumes after the ice is cleaned. Twenty minutes of overtime are posted on the clock. Becca watches, white-knuckled, while the players faceoff.

And we’re back on the roller coaster. My guys fight hard, and I can hardly breathe. I live for this. It’s a passion and a dream come true. But it’s not mylivelihood.

Rebecca’s hand tightens on mythigh.

We both lean forward in our seats as Bart Palacio gets the puck out of a scrum against theboards.

“STOP HIM,” Becca shrieks as he dodges O’Doul to keep control of thepuck.