Page 12

12

LAFRENIéRE

After weeks of trying to keep his distance, resisting the pull that was Laurel, Dustin found himself utterly defenseless against her. It was impossible to hold back anymore. He devoured her books, stealing moments to read them on his phone whenever he had the chance—between drills at the arena, in the locker room while the guys joked around him, even with one earbud in as he lay in bed just a few feet away from the woman who was slowly unraveling every defense he had.

Listening to her words, reading her thoughts woven into each story, it did something to him. It was more than just entertainment. It was intimate—too intimate if he was being honest. The more he read, the more he saw himself in the dragon prince, the hero of her stories. He wasn’t sure if it thrilled him or terrified him that this was how she saw him. It was humbling, exhilarating, and downright unnerving. She had laid him bare on those pages without even realizing it. And that meant she saw him—really saw him—in ways no one else ever had.

And he saw her.

Maybe that was why he started leaving her little messages without words. The first time, he had slipped a dragon sticker onto her desk, waiting for her to notice. He had watched, his heart hammering, as she picked it up, studied it, and then smiled. A real smile. A quiet, knowing smile. The second sticker? That one he put on his helmet, a silent declaration he didn’t have the courage to say out loud yet. He wondered if she’d see it tonight, wondered if she’d understand the meaning behind it.

And then there were the blue roses. He had justified them as a nod to his team’s colors, but that was a lie. He had picked them because they were unique, just like her – and a subtle nod that he knew about her book characters and why they all had blue eyes like him. Because somewhere deep down, he wanted her to know she was special to him in ways he hadn’t fully admitted to himself yet. He was trying—trying so hard—to show her what she meant to him without rushing her, without scaring her away. Because once they crossed that line, there would be no going back.

The young girl he remembered, who had a crush on him, was now a grown woman… but had those feelings grown like her? This was serious and beyond anything he’d handled before. This wasn’t some casual fling. She wasn’t just another girl. She was his wife. His sister’s best friend. A woman he was falling for in a way that left him completely unmoored. And if he wasn’t careful, she was going to wreck him in the best possible way.

Even this morning had been another moment that unraveled him just a little more. She had found him in the kitchen, her voice soft but full of concern as she pelted him with questions.

“Did you stretch this morning?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s your leg?”

“I’m fine right now.”

“And later?”

He had shrugged. “Depends on how rough the game is. I’ll ice it if I need to or stretch some more, but…”

“I’ll help when you get home.”

She hadn’t even hesitated. She had just said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, before he could even argue—before he could tell her there was nothing she could do—she had hugged him. Just wrapped her arms around him, solid and real, and it had stolen the air from his lungs.

He wasn’t sure what to do with moments like that. Moments that were so simple yet hit him like a freight train.

“We’ll be in the stands watching,” she had whispered, her voice full of something that felt like… pride. “It’s our first home game, and we can’t wait to support you and the new team.”

“I’ll be looking for you,” he had admitted softly, surprising himself.

“Just be safe today,” she had said, her fingers curling around the fabric of his hoodie before she reached up, standing on her toes, and kissed him.

And darn it all, that kiss had nearly undone him. The scent of peaches, the warmth of her pressed against him, the way her lips had moved against his—it was everything. It was a promise, a question, and an unspoken truth all at once.

“Laurel… we should talk,” he had whispered, his forehead resting against hers.

“No, we don’t have time,” she had said softly, her voice tinged with something that sounded almost like regret. “You’re due at the arena soon, and I don’t want to make you late, feel rushed, or leave the conversation hanging because we had a deadline.”

And just like that, she had pulled away. Leaving him standing there, wanting more. Needing more.

Now, here he was, sitting in the locker room, his mind stuck in that moment, wondering how the heck he was supposed to focus on a game when all he could think about was his wife. His wife. Not just a name on a piece of paper. Not just a convenient arrangement. But a woman he wanted to build a life with. A woman he wanted to share everything with—his dreams, his future, all the ridiculous, mundane things that shouldn’t matter but somehow did.

He wanted it all. The house with the yard. Teaching Kendall to drive in a safe, quiet neighborhood, not the chaos of downtown. Halloween costumes and Christmas mornings spent assembling bikes in the middle of the night—the kind of love he had never dared to dream about before.

“Dude, that’s not a Wolverine,” Larsson’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. He looked up to see the goalie smirking, pointing at the sticker on his helmet.

“It’s a message to my wife.”

Larsson raised a brow. “You okay with me starting?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Well, no…” Larsson chuckled, dropping onto the bench beside him. “I’m just not sure how I feel about making sure we’re ahead and then having you come in and lose the game.”

“That’s not how it’s going to happen,” Dustin said, narrowing his eyes.

Larsson grinned. “Just checking.”

“Yup,” Dustin muttered before sliding a look back at him. “As long as you don’t let them win in the first half, I’ll be able to keep the net nice and tidy, boy.”

“So the old man’s gonna teach me something, huh?”

“Only if you’re smart enough to learn—and thirty-four isn’t old.”

“It is in hockey years, Pops.”

Dustin scowled. “I’ll remember you said that.”

Larsson gave him a mock salute before heading toward the hallway, leaving Dustin alone with his thoughts again.

It sucked being benched. But worse than that, it sucked feeling like he was stuck in limbo—not just on the ice, but with Laurel.

He needed to tell her. He needed to find the words. Because if he didn’t, he couldn’t keep pretending that he was content with just friendship and camaraderie between them. Just kisses would not work anymore, and if she wasn’t ready, was he going to lose the best thing that had ever happened to him?

And Kendall?

Kendall would never let him live it down if he screwed this up and hurt her sister’s feelings.

Dustin signed, shaking his head as he ran a hand over his face. He used the ridiculous toilet coffee mug Kendall had made him two weeks ago. Every morning, without fail… and the last thing he wanted was to inspire the child to make him something even worse . He was afraid to even fathom what that would be.

Getting to his feet, Dustin grabbed his newly decorated helmet, the weight of it oddly comforting in his grip. The sharp scent of fresh gear mixed with the faint chill of the ice waiting beyond the tunnel. His heart pounded a steady rhythm against his ribs, matching the bass thumping through the arena’s speakers.

This was it.

The first game of the season.

The first game for their brand-new team. Every single person in that building—fans, critics, teammates—was waiting to see if the Quebec Wolverines were the real deal or a joke.

Stepping into the tunnel, he caught sight of the dimming lights as the announcer’s voice boomed through the stadium, the opposing team’s roster being introduced one by one. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. They weren’t facing just any team. They were up against one of the toughest powerhouses in the league. A team with a brutal defense and an offense that could make even the best goaltenders look like amateurs. This wasn’t just a game—it was a statement. Win, and they’d set the hockey world on fire. Lose and morale would take a hit they couldn’t afford.

The crowd erupted in a mix of cheers and boos as the final name of the opposing team was called. Then silence, a beat of anticipation before the announcer’s voice returned, richer, deeper, filled with the weight of history being made.

“And now, the NHL is proud to present the newest team on the ice—the Quebec Wolverines!”

A deafening roar shook the tunnel walls as the first name was called.

“Introducing number thirty—Jett Acton!”

Dustin’s eyes widened as a wave of loud boos crashed through the arena. Jett skated out onto the ice, chin lifted, shoulders squared, acting as if he didn’t hear the hostile reception.

“Holy cow, they freakin’ booed him?” Coeur muttered beside him.

Dustin smacked Coeur’s arm without hesitation. “Shut up, man. You’ve got a hot mic.”

The next name was called.

“Now, introducing number thirty-one, Kenneth Salas!”

A wall of cheers nearly drowned out the announcer’s voice, and Dustin let out a slow breath, feeling a ripple of relief move through the team.

“I’m up,” Coeur muttered, his voice taut with nerves. He stared out toward the ice like a man about to charge into battle. “I got this… I got this… oh gosh ...”

“And number twelve, the heart of the team—Barrett Coeur!”

The arena exploded in response, the crowd seizing onto the wordplay of his name. “Coeur” meant “heart” in French, and Quebec had officially claimed him as their own. The rhythmic stomping began, shaking the very boards beneath their skates.

“I love you too!” Coeur called out, pounding his chest as he soaked in the energy before he signed to someone in the crowd – and Dustin smiled proudly. The man truly was growing up, becoming a father and a fantastic friend to them all. He watched as Coeur signed to his new stepson in the stands, who was deaf… and the crowd ate it up.

Dustin turned to Matthieu Larsson, the youngest member of the team, who looked like he might throw up. His face was pale, his jaw clenched tight. The other goalie bragged a lot, talked a good game, but he was still green – still fairly new – and knew the kid had to be thinking about how he could be the reason they lost. For him to toss that out earlier had been so telling…

“You’ve got this, Matthieu,” Dustin said, making sure to catch his gaze. “You hear me? When they call your name, do something—work the crowd. They’ll love you, kid.”

“I got booed last year,” Matthieu said quietly, his eyes full of fear.

“You might again. But this is a new team. A fresh start. Ignore the noise and own that ice , brother.”

Larsson swallowed hard, nodded, and disappeared down the tunnel as his name was called. The crowd’s reaction? A mix of scattered boos and hesitant cheers. A work in progress. Next to Dustin, Boucher shifted, his expression grim.

“Got any advice for me?”

Dustin eyed him. Boucher was carrying more weight than anyone else on the team. His reputation had been dragged through the mud, and this was his last shot at redemption. He was the oldest on the team, and both of them knew his time was limited – just like Dustin’s.

“Yeah,” Dustin said, voice steady. “Show them you care. Show them you’re a family man. Skate out there and find your wife in the stands. Let them see the guy that I do, my friend.”

Boucher gave a slow nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. But as soon as his name rang through the speakers—“And number one, Keith Boucher!”—the booing came down like a hammer.

Louder than Jett’s.

Boucher paled, meeting Dustin’s eyes for half a second.

“You got this,” Dustin urged. “Go.”

Boucher hesitated, then raised his stick high and scanned the crowd as he burst onto the ice. He was just out of view when a sudden burst of applause broke through the jeers.

When Boucher circled the arena, his entire demeanor had changed. A smile cracked his serious expression, and he waved, drawing a stronger response. The tide was shifting, and Boucher had won them over—at least for tonight.

Dustin exhaled. That was a darn good start.

“And number thirteen… Dustin Lafrenière!”

He didn’t hesitate. He burst onto the ice, cutting hard across the rink, his skates carving deep lines into the fresh surface. The atmosphere was electric, the crowd a frenzied mass of energy. He lifted a hand, waving as he circled the rink, searching—and then he saw them.

Laurel. Kendall. His entire world sitting in the stands, eyes locked on him. His wife’s proud smile shone brighter than the arena lights, and there, right on her chest, was his number.

His throat tightened.

Gosh, he loved her.

He tapped his helmet, knowing she’d recognize the design. A silent message just for her.

Yeah, this was the moment. The night that would set the tone for everything to come.

“And the coach of the Wolverines… Jeff Starnes!”

As the last name was called, Dustin took his place on the bench, his heartbeat finally steadying. The season had begun. The Wolverines had arrived. And they were ready to prove it to the world.

D ustin sat on the bench, gripping his stick loosely between his gloved hands as he listened to the familiar cadence of Coeur and Boucher talking smack over the speakers. Their voices cut through the electric hum of the crowd, sharp as a skate blade gliding across fresh ice. He should’ve been focused on the game, on the ebb and flow of play, but his gaze kept drifting—again and again—to the stands where Laurel and Kendall sat.

They were huddled together, eyes locked on the action, their faces shifting between amusement and flinches of concern. He didn’t blame them. It was a rough game, more brutal than most. Boucher had already been sent to the box twice, and Coeur’s mouth was running at full speed, antagonizing the other team with the kind of humor that got under your skin and made you question your own existence.

“Hey Perry…” Coeur’s voice rang out over the ice, clear as day, and the crowd responded instantly, eating up every word. There was no one better at ‘chirping’ than Coeur. He had an uncanny ability to wield words like weapons, slipping under his opponents’ skin and setting them on fire.

“So, I hear you posted a naked selfie—was that before or after the head trauma?”

A few gasps peppered the audience, followed by a wave of laughter. Dustin smirked, shaking his head. Coeur was ruthless.

“Screw you, Coeur!” Perry snapped, already taking the bait.

“So, do you actually know what you’re looking for out here, or are you just rootin’ around like a cochon lookin’ for a ‘shroom?”

Dustin felt his chest shake with silent laughter as Perry’s face turned an impossible shade of red.

“Man, will someone shut him up?”

“Perry, Perry, quite contrary…” Coeur sing-songed, tilting his head as he twisted the nursery rhyme to suit him. “How do you even , bro?”

“I hate you, dude… I hated you on the Coyotes, and I hate you now on the Wolverines!”

“Ouch.” Coeur placed a gloved hand over his chest, feigning deep injury. “That struck a nerve. Hold on, hold on… I might feel a tear welling up. Nope. False alarm.”

“The second they drop the puck, I’m gonna drop you .”

“Whatcha waiting for?” Boucher finally chimed in, his voice smooth, unbothered. He flung down his gloves—a motion that, to Dustin, looked so much like Batiste on the Coyotes that his body reacted before his brain could catch up. He pushed up from the bench, anticipation crackling in his veins. A fight was brewing, live and mic’d up for all to hear.

“Back off, Boucher,” Perry grumbled, rolling his shoulders. “We wouldn’t want you to get in trouble here like you did back in Dallas…”

Dustin inhaled sharply.

Low blow.

Boucher didn’t flinch. “Not gonna happen.”

“Do the Wolverines even know what a piece of trash they signed?” Perry sneered. “You’re pathetic and?—”

“They signed the man who’s gonna sink the next puck,” Boucher shot back. He didn’t lunge, didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stood there, radiating control as he picked up his gloves, obviously trying to be better, readying himself to play. “My kids are watching, my family, and I’m gonna show them how to be the better man.”

Dustin watched, something tight pulling in his chest. He knew how much Boucher wanted to clean up his reputation. The man had been clawing his way back from the bottom, trying to finish his career on his own terms, with dignity and pride. And now, Perry was throwing everything he could to drag him down.

“How?” Perry scoffed. “By using Liam Savage as an example? It sure isn’t you!”

The air shifted. The crowd went silent for half a beat, and then—like a wave hitting the shore—the reaction crashed over the rink. A sharp inhale, murmurs rippling through the stands. It was one thing to trash-talk, to rile up an opponent. But this? This was different. This was humiliation, a knife twisted right where it hurt the most.

Dustin’s fingers curled around his stick. He could feel the tension in Boucher’s stance, the way his muscles coiled beneath his gear. He was holding back—barely.

And then?—

“Knock his block off, Daddy!”

The high-pitched voice split through the tension like a slapshot.

Laughter erupted from the stands. A pure, unfiltered explosion of joy that cut through the weight of the moment. Dustin’s head snapped toward the sound. He didn’t even need to look to know who it was.

Boucher grinned.

A slow, wicked, knowing grin.

“That’s my daughter.”

And then?—

The gloves hit the ice once more.

And Boucher flew at the other player.