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Jaycee had LJ in a matching jersey, the boys making each other smile and squirm as the announcer introduced the night’s purpose: raising funds to expand access to specialized therapies for kids on the spectrum across the low country.

My throat tightened.

That wasn’t just a PR line. That was Benny. That was our life.

As our team spokesman, Bishop stepped up to the mic. “On behalf of the Charleston Copperheads,” he said, voice clear and solid, “I want to remind everyone that we’re pledging to match every single donation made tonight and throughout this weekend. Dollar for dollar.”

The crowd went wild .

I skated past the bench, thumped Bishop’s glove with mine, and looked toward the platform again. Bree’s face was lit up, proud and overwhelmed all at once. Claudia dabbed under her eye with a tissue and patted my mom’s hand.

We won that night, 4–3 in overtime. Place nearly blew the roof off. Jones pulled off a hat trick and did a clumsy, little dance at center ice, which I was sure would haunt him on social media for weeks. His kids were going to give him shit for that.

But the best moment?

It came after.

We were in the tunnels, helmets off, pads half-peeled, when Bree found me.

She moved through the hallway like a woman on a mission, Benny already bundled in his puffy coat, his cheeks red from excitement and late-night sugar.

They’d watched the game from a private box along with Jaycee and LJ.

It just made life easier for the boys. Even LJ didn’t want to be wrangled to a seat all night.

“You won,” she said breathlessly, stepping into my space.

Her smile lit up the whole damn arena. I dropped my gloves on the bench lining the wall and pulled her in with one arm. “So did you.”

She looked up at me, eyes glossy but bright. “We raised over two hundred thousand dollars tonight.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Two. Hundred. Thousand. And we’re not even through Sunday’s events.”

My jaw dropped. “Holy?—”

“Don’t swear in front of our boy,” she teased, thumping my chest and winking.

Our boy.

It hit me hard, that word. Even when she said it lightly, as a joke.

Because it wasn’t one. Not to me.

Shit. I looked down at Benny. He’d wrapped one arm around my leg and leaned into me like he always did now. I bent down and scooped him up. He tucked his head against my shoulder, exhausted.

He trusted me.

God help me, I’d move mountains to never break that.

“Tomorrow,” Bree said quietly, smoothing a hand over Benny’s back, “Guess who donated enough to skate with you tomorrow?”

“Don’t tell me?—”

“Jaycee. Lexi. Grant’s mom. Your mom.”

I choked. “My mom donated that much? What was that woman thinking?”

“Well, it’s kind of my fault. She heard me talking about accommodations for a wheelchair-using young man. The rink has these sleds. Someone just has to push her. ”

My mom. On the ice with me. I literally had no words.

“She said, and I quote, ‘If Baker can take a puck to the face, I can at least make it through two laps in a sled.’”

I laughed, full and hard. “She’s a legend.”

“The one and only Charlotte Reece.”

“I know. I’m fucking lucky.”

“You are,” Bree agreed. “And so is she.”

We didn’t say anything else for a while. Just made our way into the locker room, the three of us, breathing in the magic of it all.

Tomorrow would bring the skating, the laughter, the chaos, the inevitable soreness.

But tonight?

Tonight was already unforgettable.

By noon on Sunday, the arena buzzed with the kind of energy you couldn’t fake.

Kids in oversized jerseys clutched Sharpies and pucks, darting between stations while their parents tried to keep up.

The rink had been split for the morning skate: one half for public skating with players, the other left untouched for the charity game later that evening.

I hadn’t seen this many smiles in one place since we’d won the Cup.

Bree stood on the bleachers near the bench, holding one of Benny’s sippy cups looking every inch the woman who’d just rallied through an entire weekend of organized chaos.

Mom sat next to her in the handicapped-accessible seat, cheeks pink, eyes alight.

Benny bounced beside Claudia on the bench as he rolled a small figurine between his fingers in his excitement as he watched LJ try to chase a puck backward in his little skates.

The kid was two and Bishop already had him up on skates.

Maybe if I held his hands, I could get Benny up with a pair of double-bladed skates. I bet he’d have fun.

I coasted to a stop by the rail. “How’s my form?” I called.

Bree lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve looked better.”

“Ouch. Brutal. ”

She laughed, adding, “And need to give the kids a show. Are you a goalie or at afternoon tea?”

I grinned, flicking my pinky in the air, and skated off.

We did laps with donors, signed helmets, gave their kids piggyback rides on the ice, and posed for photos. Bishop lifted a toddler in full goalie gear over his head to show me.

“You’ve got some competition . ”

“Maybe in a few years.”

Jaycee chased LJ down the boards while wearing hot-pink skates. Lexi skated with her kids while holding Jones’s hand.

Bree kept Benny back because Claudia wanted to take the ice.

She helped my mom down to the rink. We cleared a lane and did the grunt work of lowering Mom onto a sled seat with double blades on each side for stability.

I pushed her around twice to the cheers of the crowd.

She laughed the entire time, wind rushing past her face.

“You think I could play wing?” she shouted.

I couldn’t answer. I was too busy keeping my emotions in check.

For the game, we split the teams by jersey color—players mixed with donors, coaches, and a few brave wives.

Grant Bishop laced up and gave a deadpan warning to his team: “If I pull my groin, I’m making someone else finish bedtime at my house for the next year.”

Jaycee skated out in full gear, her ponytail through the back of her helmet, ready to kill . She checked Bishop into the boards within five minutes.

Claudia called it “spiritual.”

Reece’s Rules for the Charity Game:

No actual checking.

Try not to hit the kids.

Don’t let Claudia outskate you.

I broke all three.

To make sure she didn’t get hurt, I went over some important instructions with Claudia, but that woman didn’t need my help.

“I’m old. That means I’ve lived a lot of life.”

Apparently, part of that life, she’d lived on skates because it threw me, seeing her break down the ice weaving between players like a damn heatseeking missile.

She passed to a kid named Carson, who’d been grinning since the skate had started.

Carson scored, the crowd went nuts , and Claudia fist-pumped so hard, she lost her balance and started to fall. Antonov swooped in to save the day.

“Claudia’s a badass,” Bree whispered proudly beside me.

My team won in overtime—again, because Antonov couldn’t stand to lose, even in a charity game. And he got to check Bishop—just not hard enough to hurt him. We still had the rest of the season to dominate.

Final score? Who the hell cares? The stands were full, the laughter was loud, and the total donations broke four hundred thousand dollars .

Every cent matched.

Kids like Benny would get their therapies.

Their chances.

Their future.

That night, I got home with sore legs, a full heart, and my girl tucked under one arm. Benny had fallen asleep in Claudia’s lap on the ride home, his earmuffs askew and a Copperheads foam finger clutched tightly in his hand.

We carried him inside and tucked him into bed, then climbed into our own. Bree curled up beside me, still humming the noise of the arena, the soundtrack of the evening, like it was stitched into her bones.

A fucking amazing night .

“We pulled it off,” I murmured.

She didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, “This was all you.”

I leaned in and kissed her forehead. “Nah. I just stood in front of a net and looked pretty.”

She smiled against my chest. “That is your best skill.”