Page 31

Thirty-One

Aiden

“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” I call, streaking toward the net.

Gray spots me, dekes around one of the Eagles and flicks the pass my way.

It flies through the air, dropping just in time to land on my stick as I cut to the net.

Two defenseman stand between me and the goal, but that’s okay, Gray’s following his pass and Joel’s on his heels.

We have numbers.

We have a little bit of time.

We have space.

I stay wide, trying to draw one of the defenseman to me, but my opponent is on to my tactics, staying between me and his net, leaving me with a tough angle to connect a pass back over to my teammates.

It’s the right play since I generally prefer to make the pass over the shot—the high I get from creating a great play much higher than picking a corner or slipping a puck through the goalie’s five-hole.

But I can score.

And if the opportunity presents itself then I’m not going to allow it to pass me by.

I cut in around him before I run out of room, taking a sharp right to the net, dragging the puck with me in a move I’ve only fucked around with during practice?—

Around the tip of the defenseman’s stick, sliding it between his feet.

Then off the heel of one of my skates…

And kicking it up onto the tip of my stick.

Then it’s just me and the goalie and I’m only five feet away, four, three ?—

I deke to the right with my shoulders and, at the same time, I release the top hand on my stick.

So, I’m in close, holding onto my twig with my weaker hand, the other D is closing in rapidly, and the puck almost out of reach.

That’s okay though.

I keep faking right, keep drawing the goalie that direction.

Not much—he’s too good, too smart, too fast.

But I get him to bite an inch.

And that’s enough.

I grunt as I stretch that final centimeter, managing to use the very tip of my stick to push the puck forward, to slide it…

Into that open inch.

I have exactly one heartbeat to watch the puck slide over the goal line before I’m shoved hard from behind?—

And then I’m eating ice.

But I don’t give a fuck because the goal horn is blasting and the Grizzlies’ celebratory song is blaring through the arena’s speakers and Smitty is hauling me up from the ice and hugging me tight. “Fuck yeah, man!” he says, squeezing all the air from my lungs. “That was sick!”

He pounds me on the back, almost as hard as I was just crosschecked, pushing any of the air I just managed to suck in right back out of my lungs.

“Thanks,” I croak as we start skating to the bench, slipping out of reach and taking a second to breathe.

Then I’m skating along the boards, fist-bumping my teammates, knowing that I’m grinning wide.

I can’t believe that shit worked.

But I’ll take it.

“Nice, man,” Joel says as we pause by the open door and he stops to let me go ahead of him. “Really fucking nice.”

I nod my thanks, sit my tired ass on the bench and slide down to make room for the rest of my linemates.

Once we’re settled, Gray—as effusive as ever—lifts his hand for me to fist bump. “Killer,” he says. Then half his mouth quirks up. “Now let’s get one more.”

A word of praise.

Then right back to work.

If that doesn’t describe my captain then I don’t know what does.

I nod, fist bump him back, and then I focus on the game…

And by the end of the third, I don’t manage to score another goal, but I do manage to tally assists on two more of them.

We beat the Eagles for the first time this season.

I’m pulled aside to do press—answering questions about my goal, about my assists on the Gray’s and Joel’s subsequent goals.

My replies are nothing special—just the usual statements about there being many more games this season and that we need to continue to work hard and grind out our wins—but the questions aren’t all that special either.

Still, it is pretty cool to see the replay on my goal.

Because that shit was sick.

“Thanks, guys,” I tell our post-game commentators before the camera feed cuts away and I take off my headphones, handing them back to the production staff, extending my thanks to them as well before I start down the hall.

Shower. Cool down routine.

Then back to my condo.

Because tomorrow we’re packing my shit up.

And the day after, we’re bringing it over to Grams’s house—or well, Luna’s and my house now. The team has two days off, one more home game, and then another short road trip.

I want to be moved in before I head out for that trip, want to make sure Luns isn’t exposed to her brother and father without me being there—the first is doable, the second…well, I’m still working on that portion of the plan.

Kind of hard to protect her when I’m on the road.

Shaking my head, I turn for the locker room, but before I can push through the door, a traffic jam of people has me halting, trying to find the source of the backup.

Ah.

A pair of cameras point at an older man in a suit—and it only takes me a couple of seconds for me to recognize him as Jean-Michel Dubois, the owner of the Eagles, Oak Ridge Vineyards, and Titan Capital—a local firm that has invested in many Bay Area companies…including several charities.

I make a mental not to tell Luna that—if I remember correctly, he funds several animal rescue foundations that focus on saving and rehoming dogs and cats—but I’ve also heard that he has a soft spot for the women in his life, including his daughter, Chrissy, and his woman, Tiff.

Maybe Luna could approach him for a donation to help fund the second location for the shelter.

He scowls at me as I slip by, intent on the locker room’s door.

Or maybe she should wait a few days, like when the win and my goal aren’t being shown on the highlight reels.

Smothering my smile—because, yeah, I like to make a play, a pass, rack up those assists, but that goal—especially knowing that Luns was watching at home—feels good as hell.

“Black?” I hear as I start to push into the Grizzlies’ locker room.

I pause, glance back over my shoulder.

Jean-Michel’s gaze hits mine…and his lips curve into the barest hint of a smile. “Nice goal.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning away again, losing my fight on my smile.

Then freeze again.

Because I hear, “But you only get one.”

Chuckling, I shake my head and then—probably imprudently—I toss back, “We’ll see.”