Page 12

Chapter twelve

Alex

T here’s a moment, just a fraction of a second as I step onto the ice, where everything fades. The noise, the nerves, the pressure. It’s all white noise under the scrape of my blades across the blue line. I drop into the crease. Tap each post with my stick. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Control what you can. Let the rest burn.

The puck drops.

The first period is a slugfest. On unfamiliar ice, in a city that reeks of hot dogs and desperation, we dig in. No time to overthink. Just read, react, reset. The other team’s got speed, but we’re synced tighter than we’ve been in weeks. Defense is communicating. Forwards are backchecking. And me? I’m sharp. Calm.

Every shot that comes my way, I count the breath. One, two. Chest up. Glove ready. The stuff Nina drilled into my brain with that ridiculous breathing pattern.

James barrels down the wing and fires a wrister that the opposing goalie barely catches. Parker crashes the rebound but gets shoved hard into the boards. Penalty. We go on the power play.

Connor finds the back of the net off a rebound. We’re up 1–0.

Back in my crease, I let the noise crash over me. The crowd’s booing; the home fans aren’t happy we’re ahead. Their team’s down by one, and we’re on enemy ice, far from Detroit. Our bench is banging sticks in celebration. But I stay locked in.

The buzzer sounds, ending the first period.

Back in the locker room, the energy’s tight but focused. Coach strides in, clipboard under one arm, and fixes each of us with a sharp look.

“Excellent shot, Jessup, but don’t let our lead get to your heads,” he says. “Stick to the system. Support each other. No solo hero plays. We play as a unit or we don’t play at all.”

Parker nods, cracking his neck. “We’re good. We’ve got this.”

“Damn right,” James mutters, slouching on the bench and chugging water. “Let’s finish it.”

Ethan throws a towel at him. “Maybe you finish hydrating first, Shakespeare.”

The room chuckles, but under it all, there’s belief. We’re not hoping anymore. We’re expecting to win. And that’s the difference.

In the second period, things tighten. They tie it up with a nasty top-shelf laser that no one could’ve stopped—not even me. I clench my jaw but let it go. No spiraling. End of the second, it's 2–2.

Back in the locker room, Coach paces slowly in front of us, his eyes sharp, voice firm.

"That was a hell of an intense period. Now finish the job. This is where we win it, right here in the last twenty. Discipline. Support. Trust. Stay sharp, stay hungry."

James pumps a fist. "Let’s go hunting."

Parker grins. "We’re not losing this one."

The room buzzes with tension and readiness. Everyone’s dialed in. We head back out like a pack on the verge of the kill.

And we do just that.

I make a sprawling glove save in the early minutes of the third period. One of those highlight-reel moments where even the other team looks impressed. It buys us the momentum we need.

But that momentum doesn’t last long. Their top-line winger breaks past our defense and buries a wrister to take the lead 3–2. We answer fast as Connor taps one in off a rebound. And, five minutes later, Mikey executes a beautiful pass to James who slaps it right under their goalie’s legs. But they push right back, scoring off a deflection that even I couldn’t read. 4-4.

It’s a battle. Every second matters. Every shift feels like a war.

Then Parker, bleeding from the lip after taking a hit, sets up the final play. Connor feeds him the puck, and somehow, even with three guys draped over him, he buries it. We’re up by one. With under a minute left, their winger cuts across the slot, trying to roof it glove-side, but I read it, drop low, and flash the leather. The puck snaps into my glove with a satisfying thunk. The crowd groans. The bench loses it.

James bangs his stick against the boards. "That’s what I’m talking about!"

Coach shouts, “That’s a fucking save!”

5–4. Final score. Another win.

James yells, “That’s three, baby!”

Ethan’s slamming gloves with Mikey. Coach Stephens is grinning, like, actually grinning.

I just let it sink in. A few weeks ago, this would’ve felt impossible. But now, the pieces are starting to click. We’re climbing out of whatever slump we’d been buried in. And it feels damn good.

***

We hit the hotel lounge that night, a team tradition after an away win. Nothing wild, just apps and drinks and the kind of energy you can only get from a hard-fought victory.

James tries to charm the server, his usual personality at work. “So, you’re saying if I order the pretzel bites and tip well, I get your number too?”

She raises an eyebrow, smirking. “If you tip well, you get pretzel bites. If you stop flirting like it's 2009, I might even bring you extra mustard. Besides, I don't date players, especially ones from out of town."

The table erupts.

“Crushed,” Ethan says. “Brutal.”

James shrugs. “She’s just playing hard to get.”

“Or she’s just got taste,” Parker deadpans.

James gives the server his cocky grin. "Too bad, you don’t know what you’re missing."

The server shoots him a quick smirk and fires back, "Sweetheart, if I ever feel like missing awkward winks and inflated egos, I’ll know where to find you."

Connor chimes in. "She's got you figured out, dude."

We have a good laugh at James' expense. Then, across the room, I spot Nina.

She’s talking to Coach and the assistant GM, hands moving as she explains something. Her expression is focused, but relaxed.

But when her eyes catch mine, everything else fades.

It’s a look. Not long. Not obvious. Just enough to light a fuse under my skin.

She turns back to her conversation, like nothing happened.

I take a sip of water I don’t need. Swallow hard. Try to laugh at James making fun of Parker’s neat and orderly locker. But I’m not really here anymore.

She’s across the room, her long blond hair spilling down her back. Her sharp green eyes sweep the space like she sees everything. She stands with a no-nonsense posture, the kind that dares someone to underestimate her. The curve-hugging outfit she wears makes damn sure they won’t.

She moves like she’s in control of every inch of her world. And yeah… it’s a problem.

I can't get out of my damn head.

***

We both head toward the elevators at the same time. I slow my pace just slightly to match hers.

“You played solid tonight,” she says, voice quiet but steady.

I glance at her. "Saw the game?"

She gives me a look, something caught between amusement and challenge. "I watch every game, Chadwick. It's literally my job. And tonight… you were sharp. Locked in."

"Yeah?" I ask, my voice lower than it should be.

She nods. "You played well."

My mouth lifts at one corner. "Thanks. That means more than you think."

The elevator dings and we step inside. Just the two of us. The doors close.

"What floor are you on?"

"Top, twelve," she answers.

Then silence.

I take her hand and press my lips to it.

She exhales slowly, her voice soft but urgent. "Alex, this is...you shouldn’t be doing this."

“Doing what?” I ask, low and deliberate.

She turns, eyes locked on mine. “Crossing the line into somewhere we’re not supposed to be.”

“That line’s been gone for a while now.”

She opens her mouth to argue, but then... doesn’t.

I take a step closer, closing the already-small space between us. My hand is still wrapped around hers, my thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. Her pulse is racing. So is mine.

She swallows hard. Doesn’t speak.

My hand trails down her neck, across her jawline. I lean in, slow and deliberate, giving her a chance to pull away.

She doesn’t.

I move before she can change her mind. One step closes the space between us, then another, until she’s pressed against the mirrored wall of the elevator. My hand slides up her side, cupping her cheek, my thumb brushing over her bottom lip. Her eyes never leave mine—wide, electric, daring me to do it.

So I kiss her.

Hard. Deep. A claiming. My body fits against hers like muscle to magnet. Her lips part and I take, slow at first, then hungrier. She moans softly into my mouth and I swear I almost lose it right there.

I spin her gently, her back against the wall now, lifting her just enough to feel her legs slide around my hips. It’s heat and need and restraint on a thread.

I'm already hard as a rock, pressed tight against her, and I can feel the exact second she realizes it. Her lips part against mine, breath quickening as her fingers dig into my shoulders, holding me like she doesn’t want to let go.

Then, ding.

The elevator opens to her floor.

We stumble out in a daze, the long hallway stretching ahead of us.

Neither of us says a word. Our fingers brush once, then again. Then I grab her hand. She doesn’t pull away.

At her door, she fumbles with the key card. I crowd her from behind, close enough to feel the heat emanating from her. The lock clicks.

The moment the door swings shut behind us, it ignites.

I push her back against the door, lips crashing onto hers. It’s not polite. It’s not slow. It’s weeks of restraint unraveling in one kiss.

She yanks me closer by the shirt. I lift her like she weighs nothing and sit her on the dresser.

Her legs wrap around me, her hands in my hair. My hands roam, memorizing, gripping, needing.

"Been trying not to think about this since the first time you looked at me like you knew something I didn’t," I whisper against her skin.

She bites her bottom lip and says, “I did. I do.”

I kiss her again, more possessively this time. My hand skims up her sides, molding over the soft swell of her breasts through her shirt. She gasps, arching into me. I trace the outline of her curves, savoring the way she shudders beneath my touch. As I tug gently at the hem of her top, her hands close around my wrists, stopping me.

"Alex... wait," she breathes, eyes heavy, lips swollen. Her voice is trembling, but her grip is firm.

I freeze, my chest heaving, the tension between us stretched like a wire about to snap. I nod once, barely, and step back just enough to catch my breath, but not enough to let her go.

Breathless, flushed, she presses her forehead to mine. "We have to stop."

My jaw clenches. “You sure?”

She nods. “Not because I don’t want to. Because if we go further… there’s no going back.”

I step back, hands still at her waist, breathing hard. “Already getting passed that point, Doc.”

She smiles softly. “I know. But I need to be careful here. So do you.”

I kiss her one last time, slow and deep, then turn and walk out.

***

I’m lying on my hotel bed, still fully dressed, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers.

This isn’t just a hookup.

She’s under my skin. Deeper than I meant to let her go.

Every time I try to back off, I end up closer.

Being around her strips away all the noise in my head. I’m not just the goalie or the guy with the chip on his shoulder, but something real underneath all that.

And now, after tonight…

If this is what crossing the line feels like… I’m not sure I ever want to go back.