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THIRTY

Blake

Game six.

This is a must-win game for us.

Again.

It feels like we’ve been here before.

We’re certainly determined not to make this easy on ourselves.

It would be nice to not have to play seven games every series, but it is what it is.

We’re at the arena early, and I go in search of Rowan. She’s not in the training room so I’m hoping I’ll find her in her office. It feels like I’ve barely seen her since I told her I loved her, and I’m beginning to wonder if I moved too fast. I thought that was what she needed, to know I’m serious about us, but maybe I should have waited.

I really hate second-guessing myself, but I can’t put the genie back in the bottle, so all I can do now is try to mitigate any damage.

“Hey.” She looks up with a friendly enough smile. “What’s up?”

“Just wanted to say hi.” I close the door behind me. “Maybe sneak a kiss. And see why you’re avoiding me.”

“No kissing,” she says firmly, knitting her brows together. “But why would you think I’m avoiding you? I told you I needed a little time to get my head on straight. That’s all. Plus, you know, the playoffs, our parents in town—there’s been a lot going on.”

“So…you’re not mad?”

“Mad about what? There’s nothing for me to be mad about.”

“I thought maybe I moved too fast for you.”

“You did.” She gives me a quirky smile. “But it’s not a bad thing. Certainly nothing to make me mad . We’re picking up where we left off but also starting over. It can be a little confusing. Especially when we’re so busy.”

“I know. It’s just getting harder not to be able to touch you. Talk to you whenever I want. Sleep over… even when your dad is in town.”

“It’s hard for me too.” Her voice is gentle. “But right now—” She glances up, looking past me into the hallway since the top half of the walls are glass. “—I have twenty-two other guys needing my attention.”

I chuckle. “It’s a good thing I’m not the jealous type.”

“That is a good thing because you’ll have to get used to me putting my hands on other men,” she deadpans, standing up.

“Doing my best,” I say, leaning over and popping a quick kiss on her cheek before heading out.

I should be in pre-game mode, but I’ve noticed that I don’t have any set rituals or superstitions. I show up, stretch, eat, stretch some more, do a little light cardio, and that’s it. Get on the ice and play my game. Soaking in an ice bath or doing exactly twelve squats in exactly the same place, or whatever other thing some of the guys do, just isn’t for me.

Get in, get dressed, do my damnedest to score.

So that’s all I’m thinking about when the puck drops.

Ivan wins the faceoff and we’re off.

We know the Sidewinders are tough, and we were 1-1 in the regular season. Now we’re down 3-2, so we need this one.

And I want to be part of it.

I need to score.

Sometimes it’s like an itch that absolutely won’t be scratched until I see that little red light go off.

And tonight, I feel it.

That faintly uncomfortable sensation that heightens all my senses. Brings out something in me that I can’t replicate; it happens when it happens. Sometimes I can control how I deal with it, but usually I just have to get out there and push. I see the puck and know what it’ll take to get to it, even though it doesn’t always work out exactly the way I’m envisioning.

The first period is just a shit show of confusion.

We score first, but they fire right back.

Then they score again, and Canyon ties it up with a wrister that blows me away. That’s why he’s the superstar on this team.

And yet, my own need—and ability—to score is brimming just beneath the surface, urging me on. I’m skating faster, stick handling better, and it’s like I’m one with the puck. I got the assist on Canyon’s goal, so I’m right in the thick of everything.

By the time we get to the third, we’re tied at three, and the burning need to get that puck in the net is almost physically painful. I can’t describe how it feels, but I know I have to make something happen.

“Put me in, Coach,” I mutter, even though that’s not how it works. I don’t even know if he heard me, but a minute later I feel the tap, see Canyon throw his legs over the boards, and I’m right behind him.

My skates glide along the ice, and I tune out everything but the puck and the positions of my teammates.

I get the puck to start the play, so I get it into the zone on the wing and then curl back toward the boards to give Canyon and Ivan a chance to set up. The Sidewinders defenseman comes out to challenge me and leaves an opening that allows me to get closer to the net. As I skate around him, I take a quick glance at Canyon and see that his man is now coming to cover for the other d-man, leaving Canyon wide open.

I draw the defenseman in a little closer, then lift the pass over to Canyon, knowing he’s got the best shot at the net. Vegas is now in full scramble mode as everyone is trying to get between Canyon and the net—he is the superstar after all. He fires it through, nobody knows where it is, and all of a sudden, I see it gliding right toward me.

This is when instinct kicks in and it becomes a slow motion one-timer. Since no one else knows where it is, I move fast, because it won’t take long for them to figure it out. I wind up and it sails clean in, over the goalie’s shoulder.

My arms are in the air right as that red light goes off and chaos erupts. Before I have a chance to celebrate, one of the tough guys on the Sidewinders shoves Ivan backwards.

Big mistake.

The burly Russian isn’t a big fighter but look out when he does. He shoves the guy back, they drop the gloves and next thing I know, one of their defensemen has taken a swing at me.

Fuck.

I don’t want a penalty for fighting but I also can’t just stand here.

And he started it.

So I give him a shove away from me, and he comes back, trying to get me in a headlock. I twist out of his grasp, and throw an undercut, catching him in the jaw and sending his helmet flying.

Oops.

I don’t have time to feel bad because he’s swinging like a lunatic and my control finally snaps.

I grab his jersey right on his chest right below the shoulder, and twist, tightening it up so his wild swings aren’t making any serious contact. We’re both pushing and pulling, shaking each other up a bit. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on around me, but I see at least one other fight in my peripheral vision. And the refs haven’t gotten to us yet, which means there’s a lot going on.

Suddenly I realize he either forgot his fight strap, or it came loose in the scuffle, because his jersey is riding up.

I take full advantage and yank as hard as I can, tugging the jersey over his head. He’s still trying to swing, but now he can’t see and I force him to his knees. I’m not the guy who’s going to throw someone without a helmet onto the ice so I just keep pushing him sideways until the ref finally comes over and gets between us.

The crowd has gone wild, players on the bench from both teams are tapping their sticks, yelling encouragement, and there’s a lot of pandemonium as the refs try to figure out who did what and assess penalties.

I shake my head and skate back toward the bench, catching Rowan’s eye as I do.

And she’s smiling.

Not the sexy, flirty smiles we share when we’re alone, but a full-on this-is-fucking-great smile.

There’s only three minutes left in the game, and Ivan, Canyon, and I are all in the box, serving four for fighting. However, Vegas winds up with the extra two minutes since their defenseman instigated against Ivan. We end the game with a power play, and wind up winning 4-3.

Things are wild in the locker room too, since the sports books and oddsmakers all had Vegas winning the series in six.

Take that, you fuckers.

I don’t have time to think about anything because I’m immediately surrounded by reporters. The press corps has been pretty interested in me throughout the playoffs so far, but tonight they’re going hardcore.

“Blake, are you going back to Phoenix at the end of the season?” someone calls out.

“Well, I live there,” I quip, “so yeah. I’ll have to go back one way or another.”

Asshole.

Trying to get me into trouble or to say something I shouldn’t.

“Blake, what’s next for you?” someone else asks.

“Game seven,” I reply.

Everyone chuckles.

“What’s different about this series?” someone else asks. “Compared to the Blizzard.”

“Different teams, different city, different vibe,” I respond. “Every team, hell, every game, is different. You can’t compare. Alaska is a great team. This year, we were better. Vegas is a tough team full of really talented players—and we’re going to battle it out to the end.”

“Can you tell us anything about a rumor that you’re going to Boston?” someone asks.

I momentarily freeze.

Mother. Fucker.

Did Anson actually let that drop?

Jesus.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say. “All I’m thinking about is game seven. Nothing else exists until this series is over. Thanks, guys.” I turn and almost run to the showers.

What the fuck just happened?