Page 17

By the time they reached the official home opener, Jesse was buzzing with excitement about the season ahead.

He’d fucking killed it in the pre-season. They hadn’t won every game, but they’d won most of them—especially when he was in net—and the Boston media had been talking nonstop about how he was playing.

After their weird, intense conversation at the pub, Connor had seemed to settle in, determined to ignore that it had ever happened. The sex had been great and the hockey had been great so Jesse didn’t have any inclination to argue.

He’d spent some more time with the O’Shea kids, watching movies and playing games and practicing with Nolan, who used a small shooting pad in the basement.

He’d had dinner with the whole O’Shea clan as well, enjoying the raucous energy and everyone talking over one another. At one point, he’d ended up with a lapful of kid, food in his hair, and tears leaking from the corners of his eyes as he howled at the adults’ antics.

Jesse loved his own family fiercely but they were a small group and much more quiet and reserved than he was. Someone had called him a parrot in a nest of sparrows once and he sort of got what they meant.

The O’Shea family felt like a whole flock of noisy, squawking tropical birds.

Most of them were here now, ready to watch the first game of the regular season. Declan, Finn, and Pat had come down to the locker room to meet with the guys and wish them luck. Declan had read the starting lineup.

Pretty damn cool.

“Fuck, this is unreal,” Tanner shouted in his ear now. He’d had a great pre-season too and was officially on the NHL roster. He was practically vibrating with excitement at playing his first NHL game and, as they stood in the tunnel waiting to be announced, Jesse could understand why.

He could hear the shouts of fans, feel the reverberation of the thumping speakers in his bones.

The music, the noise, it always gave him such a rush of energy. It made him feel like he was invincible.

“And from Toronto, Ontario, number thirty-three, Jesseeee Webberrrrr!” the announcer boomed.

Jesse shot out onto the ice, waving at the crowd, grinning madly at the cheers rising around him. For a moment, it was like he was back in Toronto, with tens of thousands of people chanting “Web-by, Web-by” like they had after one of his highlight-worthy saves during the playoffs.

Now, he blew a few kisses, then skated into position in the bright circle at the center of the ice around the Harriers logo, the ice bathed in red and yellow lights.

Next to him, Crawford tapped his shin pads and shot him a grin.

Jesse grinned back. He wasn’t in Toronto anymore but he was sure it wouldn’t be long before the crowd here loved him too.

His entire body buzzed while the rest of his teammates skated out and joined him in the circle. The mounting excitement of the crowd was palpable as the announcer went through the roster, the cheers getting louder with every name announced.

The noise rose to a fever-pitch when they reached the final player. “From right here in Boston, Massachusetts, number ninety-one, your captain, Connorrr O’Sheaaa!”

The crowd went wild, screaming and clapping and whistling. Jesse whistled too when Connor passed by him. His stick flashed out, smacking Jesse’s pads.

Jesse laughed, surprised Connor was flirting with him in front of a crowd like this. Then again, most people would chalk it up to teammates horsing around.

But either way, Jesse liked it. He liked the way Connor looked in his black uniform with the red, orange, and yellow accents, the hawk proudly displayed on his chest, the letter ‘C’ for captain sewn over his heart.

During the singing of the national anthem, he watched Connor pull his chain out of his jersey, pressing his lips to the shiny silver cross for good luck.

No, Jesse definitely wasn’t in Toronto anymore, but Boston was finally beginning to feel like home.

Connor’s blood pounded in his ears as he skated past New York’s defensemen, still in control of the puck. He could see a slight break in their defense and he faked like he was going to shoot the puck to Crawford, but fired it toward the net instead. It slid straight through the slot but it was blocked by New York’s goaltender, Joseph Walters, bouncing off his blocker, then into the netting above the boards.

Connor cursed as he skated to the bench and Graham hopped over to take the next faceoff.

They were only about five minutes into the first period but Walters had been playing great and despite all of the solid scoring chances Boston had gotten, the score was still 0-0.

Less than a minute later, Connor watched intently from the bench when Leif Rasmussen—New York Vandals’ forward and son of their associate coach Aksel—tore down the ice on a breakaway, heading for Jesse’s net.

“C’mon, c’mon, get on him!” Connor shouted and Tanner dug in with his skates, wheeling around the net to get in the New York Vandals’ player’s way. He was too late to do anything, but Jesse effortlessly swatted the puck away.

Boston fans roared their approval and Connor grinned at the way Jesse puffed up, squaring his shoulders, clearly pleased with himself.

Jesse was a total showboat and they were gonna love him.

Play resumed and New York picked up the pace, peppering Jesse with shots that he confidently swatted out the way or captured and held. Nothing was getting by him.

Pleased, Connor took the ice again.

He won the next faceoff and sent the puck flying toward Tanner. Tanner shot it over to Anker Henriksen, Connor’s left winger, who fired it at New York’s net where it pinged off the goalposts.

The next few minutes went back and forth, Jesse making another solid glove save on a great chance by New York.

Boston was getting outshot now though and Connor frowned as he watched the play move to Boston’s defensive zone. On his next shift, with six minutes left in the first period, he pushed harder, managing a wide-angle shot that Walters blocked.

Swearing, Connor spotted a chance for a rebound and poked at the puck, nearly getting it in before Walters covered it with his body, stopping the play.

“Fucking hell,” Connor muttered. He skated away, jostling one of New York’s defenseman in his irritation.

The guy shoved him back but a second later the whistle blew and a linesman was there, settling it down.

Connor caught Luke Crawford’s gaze from a few feet away and he lifted an eyebrow, clearly asking Connor if he wanted to make the game a little feistier. Connor nodded, because sometimes that was what it took to get the boys going, and he wasn’t about to leave the ice at the end of the period with a 0-0 score.

They needed something .

After the next faceoff, as New York pushed them back into their defensive zone, Crawford slammed into New York’s puck carrier, the open-ice hit sending him sprawling. One of New York’s defensemen—Trent Howell—took exception to it, barreling into Crawford.

They tangled, grappling for each other’s jerseys, a shout rising from the crowd.

The teams met in a clash of bodies and frustration. Connor grabbed for the nearest New York player, wrestling with him when he tried to land a hit. Connor had him outmatched in both size and experience, so he dodged the punch and got the guy in a headlock.

Crawford and Howell were still going at it, gloves flying to the ice and Crawford got in a few great hits, then pushed Howell down to the ice, still swinging.

Two linesmen finally got in there, pulling them apart.

Crawford shouted, “Fucking weak-ass pansy, needing to be rescued,” as he got pulled away.

The ref ignored the slur. They often did, especially if it wasn’t actually directed toward an out LGBTQ+ player, though Crawford went to the box for the fight of course.

Connor’s blood was singing in his veins as he hopped on the bench and Boston’s penalty kill unit took the ice.

They had a great chance in the offensive zone while they were killing the penalty, but once again, Walters batted the disc away and New York got control. The penalty had nearly expired when Tanner got control of the puck, shooting it toward Graham Pennington, who slammed it into New York’s net, Walters too slow to stop it.

Tapping gloves with Pennington, Connor let out a relieved sigh. Finally .

They were up 1-0 as they left the ice at the end of the first period.

The Harriers locker room was shaped like an oval and Connor clomped over to one of the long walls where his stall was situated about halfway down.

He stripped off a few layers to cool down, then guzzled some electrolyte water.

Jesse’s stall was set up along the narrow wall on the far end, across from the entrance, and he flashed Connor a fleeting grin when he lumbered by, bulky in all his gear. He stripped off some layers too, until he was bare from the waist up, lean torso flexing as he reached for a power bar.

Connor had to glance away, but he found his gaze returning to Jesse’s body, studying him while he joked around with Kady, gesturing excitedly about something. Kady nodded, laughing, and Connor wondered if he even understood what Jesse was saying, or if he was only responding to Jesse’s energy and excitement.

Back out for the second period, Coach Hoyt reminded the team to keep up the momentum and try to score early in the period.

Connor nodded, setting up for the faceoff.

He got the puck off to Crawford, who passed it to Anker. Anker skated hard along the wall, shooting it to Mickey Krause. Connor, deep in the offensive zone, wheeled around the net, calling out “open,” in the hopes Micky would shoot his way.

When he did, Connor swatted it toward the goal, the puck slipping cleanly between Walters’ catcher and pad.

Arms in the air, Connor shouted his joy, the noise lost in the roar of the crowd and the sound of the goal horn. Mickey slammed into Connor a moment later, Henriksen joining them and Crawford nearly bowled them all over in his enthusiasm to join the celly.

“Fuck yeah!” he shouted, jostling Mickey’s helmet. “Nice one, boys.”

Pleased, Connor skated to the bench to tap gloves with his teammates. That felt damn good. It was nice to get his first goal of the season out of the way so it wasn’t hanging over him.

A few minutes later, Boston was on the penalty kill, deep in the defensive zone, New York pressuring Boston until they were playing on their heels. Connor held his breath when Rasmussen fired, the puck pinging loudly off the post with a clash of iron.

For a moment, Connor thought they were safe but he groaned when he saw Jesse smack his stick on the ice, clearly frustrated. Connor glanced up at the Jumbotron, watching the replay and swore when he saw the puck had hit the post, then ricocheted into the net, landing New York their first goal.

There was nothing Jesse could have done to prevent it, but Connor glanced over to check in, watching him tilt his mask back and squirt some water in his mouth. After a full-body wiggle like he was literally shaking it off, he snapped the mask back into place. He seemed calm as he hunkered down in net again and Connor smiled to himself.

He liked how in control Jesse seemed. How rarely he appeared to get rattled.

For the next ten minutes, the score remained 2-1 in favor of Boston, though New York was clearly pushing hard to get another.

Connor was on the bench again when they got another great attempt but Jesse threw himself on the puck, smothering any chance of a rebound.

Pennington got the third goal for Boston with seven minutes left in the second period and Connor rose to his feet, cheering for his teammate and tapping gloves when he skated past.

A few minutes later, there was another goal for Boston, this time by Anker Henriksen, and Connor breathed a little easier as they left the bench with the score at 4-1 by the end of the second.

New York continued to push hard in the third period but Jesse was feeling good as the first few minutes ticked down. He’d made some great saves and he was feeling himself, humming and dancing a little to the thumping music during a commercial break.

The crowd cheered and, when he realized it was for him, he waved and raised his blocker and stick, dancing a little harder, showing off for the fans.

Jesse caught a glimpse of Connor shaking his head on the bench, so Jesse blew a kiss toward him, knowing everyone would think it was for the crowd behind him.

Thankfully, Hoyt looked more amused than upset at his antics, which was way better of a reaction than Jesse would have gotten from Gilly.

God, Michael Gilbert had been so fucking uptight. Jesse didn’t miss that one bit.

As the period continued, New York had a few more good plays, but Jesse stopped the puck each time.

With about nine minutes left, New York and Boston players clustered near Jesse’s net, jostling for position when Leif Rasmussen snapped a puck toward the goal. Jesse lunged, but he was a fraction of a second too late and the puck skipped over his pad and went in, bringing the score to 4-2.

Jesse swore, frustrated he hadn’t been able to spot it though the screen of players in front of him.

“Stop fucking screening me,” he yelled at Tanner, who shot him an apologetic look.

“Sorry. Rasmussen shoved me into the crease as he took his shot,” Tanner protested, glaring at New York’s forward.

“Fuck you, Clayton,” Rasmussen snarled back, skating away but not before he leveled a glare at Tanner.

“Dude, what the fuck is that about?” Jesse asked when he was gone. “What beef do you have with our associate coach’s son?”

Tanner rolled his eyes. “Ugh. Don’t ask. We played together in Juniors.”

Jesse gave his teammate a skeptical glance because Tanner didn’t usually fight guys he’d played with previously. But Tanner was a bit of a pest on the ice so Jesse could see how maybe there was bad blood now.

Boston and New York were longstanding rivals and tempers tended to flare hot during rivalry games.

Jesse wiggled to center himself, then hunkered down in the net, taking a few deep breaths to calm his mind and regain his focus. He’d let two goals in, but he’d stopped way more than that. He could do this.

All he had to do was maintain their two-goal lead.

Boston got a few good looks at the other end of the ice without a goal and Jesse deflected a few more pucks in his end, so the score remained 4-2 while the minutes of the period ticked down.

There were about ninety seconds left in the game when Rasmussen tore up the ice again, the puck on his stick, skates flashing as he dug in.

Jesse’s gaze zeroed in on him, watching for those tiny, almost imperceptible clues that would tell him if Rasmussen was going to shoot or pass the puck. Gaze locked on Jesse, Rasmussen passed, blindly shooting the biscuit toward Vincente Pearson, one of New York’s defensemen. Jesse’s gaze snapped over to Pearson, throwing himself sideways when the guy pulled his stick back, slapping the puck hard toward Jesse.

Jesse snapped up the disc in his catcher, grinning at the glare Pearson shot him.

“Aww, did I mess up your chance, big guy?” Jesse cooed with a wink. He held his catcher out so the waiting linesman could grab the puck, laughing at the muttered curses flung over Pearson’s shoulder as he skated away.

Boston was in control for the remainder of the minute and a half and when the game ended, the Harriers had won their opening night game 4-2.

Elated, Jesse danced a little in his crease while he waited for his congratulations.

His heart beat a little faster when Connor skated up, beaming. He was flushed pink, sweat trickling down his temples as he pressed a smacking kiss to Jesse’s mask, tugging on the cage a little.

“Good job, Webby,” Connor said, beaming. “You did so fucking good tonight.”

Jesse shot him a grin back. “You weren’t so bad yourself.”

Before Connor pulled away, he whispered, “I think we should celebrate when we get home.”

As Jesse waited as patiently as he could for the hugs and helmet bonks from his teammates to end, he counted down the seconds until he could find out exactly what Connor had in mind for them.

Whatever it was, he knew it would be good.

A win and the promise of some great sex later? Oh yeah, Jesse was having a damn good night.