Page 40 of For Pucking Real (The Seattle Vipers #4)
TWENTY-EIGHT
DEVAN
Now
T here's something electric about facing Toronto at home.
The air in the locker room practically crackles with tension and sweat, a familiar, frenzied quiet that settles over the team before puck drop.
This isn't just another game. This is personal, for all of us.
Especially for Derrick. This is the team that abandoned him in his time of need.
When he took them all the way to the Stanley Cup Final last year, they traded him away like yesterday's news after his injury.
Well, tonight they get to see exactly what they threw away, what kind of champion they discarded when things got tough.
He's starting in net tonight. From the moment I walked into the locker room and saw his number circled on the board, I knew he was locked in.
There's a different energy about him, shoulders squared, jaw set, eyes focused on some distant point only he can see.
The way Sebastian stayed close, offering short, quiet encouragements, a hand on Derrick's shoulder pad, murmuring things only meant for him.
The way Coach Lennox and Coach Willis gave him nods, full of confidence but unsaid pressure.
We all know what this night means, vindication, redemption, proving Toronto made the biggest mistake of their franchise history.
The locker room hums with pre-game rituals. Tor taping his stick with methodical precision. Ridley blasting his playlist through his headphones, nodding to the beat. Sebastian helping Derrick adjust his pads, their fingers lingering longer than necessary.
Across the bench, Tobias leans in toward me.
We're already half dressed, sitting side-by-side as we lace up skates and adjust pads.
Close enough that our knees brush under the bench, that familiar spark shooting up my leg.
He doesn't say anything at first. Just tips his phone toward me, screen lit up with a picture of Chloe, grinning wide with a handful of Lia's hair clutched in her tiny fist, drool glistening on her chin.
"She's already tried to eat her Vipers beanie," he murmurs, a low, secret smile tugging at his lips, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Lia's losing it. Sent me about fifteen texts about how our daughter seems determined to destroy everything Vipers-related."
I smother a laugh behind my glove. "She's teething. Everything's fair game. Last night she tried to gnaw through my favorite jersey." I pause, warmth spreading through my chest at the casual way he said 'our daughter'. Not just mine. Ours. Like we've been building this together all along.
He glances at me, that look we've been trading all season, heavy with everything we can't say in public.
Everything we're trying to keep between us, even if it's getting harder every day.
His eyes linger on my face, tracing the line of my jaw, the curve of my mouth.
Sometimes I wonder if everyone can see it, this gravity between us, pulling us together even when we're trying to maintain distance.
From across the room, Ridley raises a brow at us, that knowing smirk playing on his lips.
I see Tor smirk and elbow him, whispering something that makes Ridley snort with laughter.
Sebastian just shakes his head, a fond exasperation in his expression.
Derrick doesn't even look up, he's too focused, rhythmically bouncing a ball against the wall, catching it with lightning-quick reflexes.
Which is good, because if anyone deserves this win, it's him.
After everything Toronto put him through, he needs this shutout like he needs air.
Tobias's shoulder presses lightly against mine as we stand to stretch.
I feel the solid warmth of him, the subtle scent of his cologne mixing with pre-game sweat.
We don't talk again. We don't have to. The silence is full of unsaid things, promises we'll keep later, away from prying eyes and listening ears.
When we hit the ice, it's like skating into battle. The roar of the crowd washes over us, a wall of sound and energy that lifts us higher.
Toronto is brutal from the drop. Their first line is aggressive and fast, swarming Derrick in the net like sharks circling after scenting blood.
They're out for blood, determined to prove they made the right choice letting him go.
Derrick? He's a wall, a goddamn fortress and it's a sight to see.
Save after save, block after block. Each one steadier than the last. He's not flinching.
Not faltering. His movements are fluid poetry, a dance between him and the puck that Toronto can't interrupt.
By the end of the first period, we're up 1-0.
Tor nailed a beautiful redirect off a pass I sent across the ice, threading the needle between two defenders, and the place erupted.
The arena shook with the force of thousands of fans on their feet.
I didn't even get to celebrate properly, too busy checking on Tobias, who'd just taken a hit into the boards that made my heart stop for a beat before he bounced up like it was nothing, flashing that cocky grin that says he's fine.
Second period, things get nastier. The hits come harder, the checks more vicious.
Davis clips Tor with a high stick that draws blood, and Ridley loses his mind.
Gloves off, fists flying before anyone can blink.
He's yelling something about Toronto needing to suck a bag of pucks, or maybe something far more graphic, but the crowd eats it up, stamping their feet and howling for blood.
Derrick's save count climbs fast. Twenty.
Then twenty-five. By thirty, even Sebastian looks tense on the bench, knuckles white around his water bottle.
Derrick's unshakeable, a man on a mission.
Steady. Poised. On fire. His reflexes are supernatural tonight, like he's reading Toronto's minds before they even decide where to shoot.
Tobias snags a breakaway midway through the second and absolutely demolishes their goalie with a clean top-shelf finish that makes the net snap back. His grin when he skates by me is wicked, all teeth and triumph.
"Try to keep up, Scott," he taunts, bumping his shoulder against mine as we head back to center ice.
"Was that you scoring or just falling gracefully?" I shoot back. "I've seen better goals in peewee hockey."
He winks and yeah, heart melts a bit. More than a bit. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the flash of challenge in them, it does things to me that have no place on professional ice.
By the third period, the score is 3-0. The Vipers are flying.
Derrick's standing on his damn head, making saves that'll be on highlight reels for weeks.
Ridley scores again, a beautiful wrister that threads through traffic.
Then Tor, again, bulldozing his way to the net and jamming it home.
5-0. The entire arena is vibrating with energy, with the possibility of something special happening.
Yet all I can think about is the way Tobias's hand brushed mine when we passed each other water on the bench, fingers lingering just a second too long.
The way our legs press together under our gear when no one's looking, heat blooming even through layers of padding.
The way I keep catching him watching me when he thinks I'm focused on the game.
The way we keep sharing glances across the ice, like we're carrying this thing in plain sight and daring someone to call us on it.
I catch glimpses of the stands when I can.
Lia's up there, bundled in her Vipers Jersey, my number stretched across her back, Chloe strapped to her chest in a fuzzy baby carrier, ear protection in place over her tiny ears.
Her dark curls peek out from under her beanie.
Brea and Alexis are flanking her with Kodah strapped to her front, Vipers beanie covering his head, the three women huddled together like a fortress of support.
Just seeing them, my girls, our family, it makes me sharper. Better. Like I've got something precious to protect, to make proud. Tobias must feel it too, because he plays like he's got something to prove, forechecking with a vengeance, backchecking like his life depends on it.
When the horn sounds and the scoreboard reads 5-0, we know what it means.
A shutout. Derrick's first since coming back from an injury that should have ended his career. Redemption. Full circle. The ultimate middle finger to the team that gave up on him.
We swarm him, crashing into each other with sticks raised and gloves flying, a tangle of limbs and jubilant shouts.
Sebastian skates over slower, his eyes locked on Derrick like there's no one else in the world, like the thousands of screaming fans have faded to nothing.
Then they're in each other's arms, and Derrick is pulling off his helmet, sweat-damp curls springing free, and he kisses Bast right there at center ice, the crowd roaring like it's the playoffs, like they've just witnessed something historic, which maybe they have.
We all cheer harder, thumping them on their backs, surrounding them with support. No one's surprised. We love them. The Vipers fans love them. This moment has been building for months, and there's something perfect about it happening tonight, when Derrick proved everyone who doubted him wrong.
Their distraction gives me enough cover to slip toward the tunnel, where Lia waits with Chloe in her arms, just beyond the security barrier.
Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, eyes bright with unshed tears of pride.
She's beaming. She leans over the rail as Tobias and I approach together, Chloe squirming in her hold, one chubby fist stretched toward Tobias, recognizing him instantly even through his helmet and gear.
He kisses Chloe’s forehead, so gentle for a man who just demolished opponents on the ice. Then he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Lia’s lips that speaks volumes about how far we’ve come together.
She turns to me next, shifting Chloe to one arm so she can reach for me with the other.
“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers, voice thick with emotion.
“You were magnificent out there.” Then she kisses me too, soft, sweet, nothing too flashy, but her fingers curl into the front of my jersey, holding me close for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
We don’t hear the shutters. Don’t see the cameras catching every angle. Tobias with Lia, Lia with me, stitching together a story the world will read in a single glance.
It's just us. A quiet pause between the noise. Her, Tobias, Chloe, and me. The four of us existing in our own bubble of happiness, of belonging.
We're a family.
For once, I don't want to hide it. Don't want to pretend this isn't exactly what I want, them, all of them, exactly as we are. Complicated and messy and perfect.