Page 27

He skated into place – and saw several faces turn to look at him, all with the same look.

“Nutella?” Coeur asked pointedly as Salas shook his head.

“You know the running of the bulls is in Pamplona, Spain – not Barcelona.”

“Seriously?” Boucher chimed in, waiting. “Barcelona and Nutella? What’s wrong with you? Did you take a puck to the head?”

“It’s our thing,” Jett shrugged, looking at his team, his friends, and the men he considered his brothers on the ice. “My thing is not your thing – and it’s sure bigger than any of their ‘things’…” he continued, turning to goad the other team as the chirping began.

“FOCUS!”

He heard Savage’s yell, moved into position… and grinned.

Time to goad the man and have a little fun!

“We’re focused and got this, Captain Pimples!” Jett hollered – and waited for the ax to fall. Sure enough, he didn’t have to wait long as Coeur, Boucher, and Salas began laughing.

The reaction from the other team was wilder. One of the guys actually slipped and fell. He could even hear a few chuckles coming from Larsson, who was manning the goal in the distance. Yep, his voice carried across the ice… and the other team was in chaos.

“What’d he say?”

“No, he didn’t…”

“He called his captain… Captain Pimples?”

“It’s Pamplona , you idiot – not pimples …” Salas grunted.

“Puck?” Jett hissed quickly under his breath, sharp and low, just loud enough for his teammates to hear, snapping them back to the reality of the game. It was a growled reminder of why they were on the ice—to win.

The other team was still chuckling, shaking their heads in disbelief, caught off-guard by the newest moniker they’d slapped on the Wolverines’ captain—Captain Liam ‘ Pimples ’ Savage. It was juvenile, sure, but it had hit its mark and was working just as designed.

The opposing team was off-balance.

He was the chirping king of the ice.

The referee barely hesitated before dropping the puck, the black disk spinning like fate between the skates of distracted players.

Boucher didn’t wait.

He shot forward like a missile, laser-focused, his blade carving into the ice with the fury of purpose. In mere seconds, the puck was behind the goalie and in the net.

Clean.

Fast.

Beautiful.

The first score of the game.

And with it, a new nickname for the golden boy, the captain of the Wolverines.

Captain Pimples.

Jett bit back a grin, his chest swelling with pride as he skated alongside his line.

Savage wasn’t going to forget this moment anytime soon—and Jett couldn’t be more delighted.

He had a new weapon now, a fresh angle, and he wielded it with the kind of gleeful precision that only a truly shameless chirper could manage.

He tossed zit jokes left and right throughout the game, each one more ridiculous than the last, knowing full well how much it rattled the other bench.

The laughter, the snickers, the gasps—they were fuel.

It was shaping up to be one of those perfect days, one he would never forget.

A great day.

A great moment.

And what felt like the beginning of an incredible forever with Karen and this new team.

Even as he moved across the ice, legs pumping, vision sharp, his mind wandered for the briefest of seconds.

He imagined Karen laughing, imagined her hand pressed to her growing belly someday, the way she’d look holding their baby.

The way their child might have her smile or maybe his eyes.

He thought about all the ways he wanted to show her love—not just in words, not just in bed, but in every second they were together.

He wanted to win the Stanley Cup just so they could have baby photos taken with a cute little baby tooshie peeking out from the top of the cup.

Getting fired, married, and hired—had been the ultimate hat trick from the universe, but he was the one who won it all in the end.

“And I wouldn’t change a thing,” he grunted through clenched teeth, sending the puck flying across the ice with a clean, hard slap. It soared, spun, and found its mark—another point on the board.

“I’m in love with my wife,” he said aloud, not caring who heard him, not caring how it sounded. His voice was a vow. A celebration. “And she wants my baby. We’re gonna have the cutest baby with an adorable butt.”

“You’re weird, dude,” Coeur laughed. “I thought I was bad, but I think you take the cake.”

And Jett shrugged, grinning at his teammate whom he knew understood only too well. Barrett Coeur’s wife was pregnant. There would be plenty of cute baby booties racing around in their lives – especially considering he’d been voted to have Thanksgiving at his condo.

Maybe I should tell Karen about that sooner rather than later.

As the roar of the crowd rose around him and the bench erupted in cheers, Jett glanced over his shoulder toward the stands.

There she was.

Karen stood with that glowing smile he’d never get enough of, blowing him a kiss and waving like she was the only person in the arena who mattered—and she was.

In that moment, everything else faded away.

The scoreboard.

The chirping.

The game.

All he could feel was her love—and the certainty that he’d won more than a match tonight.

Life was good.