Page 18 of Second Chance with the Single Dad Goalie (Second Chance Hockey Players #2)

Johansson, their captain, catches a pass near the face-off circle. He fakes a slap shot, making me drop slightly - but it’s a trick. Shifting his weight, he flicks the puck over to their winger, who slaps it - fast, hard, perfectly aimed at the corner of the net.

The puck rockets toward me. I throw out my glove - snap! But I don’t catch it clean. It drops right in front of me.

Johansson crashes in. I lunge, stick out, desperate to poke it away - but he gets there first. A quick flick.

Goal.

The Columbus crowd explodes.

1–1.

I shake it off. No time to dwell. The game isn’t over.

In the second period, we tighten up. Tomas steals a pass at center ice and races toward the net. Their defense closes in, but he cuts right, dragging the puck with him, and flicks a shot over the goalie’s shoulder.

Goal!

2–1.

Third period. Do or die.

Columbus fights back. Hard. They hammer me with shots - slap shots from the blue line, rebounds, tight scrambles. I drop, block, stretch, deflect - every muscle locked in, every instinct firing.

Five minutes left.

Johansson flies into our zone, sneaking past our defense like they aren’t even there. He’s aiming for me.

I square up. Ready.

He snaps a wrist shot - fast, top corner.

I explode upward, snatching it out of the air with my glove. Crowd groans.

I hold onto it for a second. Let them feel that one. Then I drop the puck for Tomas to clear.

With 1:45 left on the clock, Columbus pulls their goalie.

Six attackers. Full pressure.

Chaos.

The puck bounces between skates, between sticks. I can barely track it. Then - boom! A shot comes through traffic. I drop and save, but the rebound is loose.

A Steelhawks forward swings - I dive - stick out - deflection!

Liam snags it.

He races down the ice, the Steelhawks defenders scrambling behind him, but he’s too fast. With a glance over his shoulder, Liam sees the empty net. The puck flies off his stick, cutting through the air in a perfect arc. Whoosh, clink!

The crowd falls silent for a split second, the tension hanging in the air.

Then… - Goal!

The puck slams into the empty net.

3–1.

The Avalanche bench erupts. There are a few scattered cheers from our small but loyal traveling fans, but the rest of the arena is filled with disappointed groans.

Five seconds left.

The game’s all but over.

The Steelhawks know it. The puck never gets close enough for them to mount a proper attack. Their heads drop, shoulders slump. The pressure’s gone.

The buzzer sounds.

Game over.

We’ve won.

As our away fans cheer, my teammates charge the ice, a mob of celebration. The weight of the game still hangs on me, but it is fading, replaced by the satisfying sting of victory.

Liam’s the first one to reach me, giving me a hard slap on the back. "Nice save, man. Couldn’t have done it without you," he says, grinning.

I just nod. “We all did it."

A rush of pride courses through me as I glance at the scoreboard - 3–1 - the final score. The Avalanche has won.

I catch a glimpse of my teammates celebrating. Tomas, Adam, Liam, and Paul, all with huge smiles, lifting their sticks in the air.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

We did it.

Without meaning to, my mind drifts to the card, back to that handwriting.

Good luck, Blake. We are rooting for you.

I can’t wait to hear their voices.

****

I push open the front door, my duffel bag slung over my shoulder, exhaustion weighing me down after the game and celebratory dinner. But the second I step inside, the sound of squeals, screams, and uncontrollable laughter fills my ears.

My brows pull together. What the…?

The noise is coming from the kitchen. I stride toward it, the rich scent of something sweet filling the air, and stop short at the doorway.

Absolute chaos.

Whitney and the kids are in the middle of a flour war.

White powder dusts the air, covering the countertops, the floor and them.

The twins are shrieking with laughter, throwing handfuls of flour at Whitney, who is dodging and tossing it back with just as much enthusiasm.

Mia scoops a handful and throws it right at Whitney’s face, making her gasp before she launches her counterattack.

The kids squeal in delight, dodging her retaliation, little giggles filling the space.

A strange warmth stirs in my chest. This. This right here.

I lean against the doorway, watching, imagining - for just a second - what it would be like if this wasn’t temporary. If she wasn’t just here for a while but here…, for good.

I swallow hard, pushing the thought aside.

I clear my throat. “You guys seem to be having so much fun you didn’t even notice I’m back,” I say, crossing my arms.

Silence.

The three of them freeze mid-action, eyes wide. And then, as if choreographed, the three of them blink - once, twice, three times - all in perfect sync.

A heartbeat passes.

I raise a brow. “Seriously?”

Then the moment of stillness shatters as the kids let out an ear-piercing scream.

"Daddy! Daddy’s home!"

Before I can brace myself, they launch at me, their little flour-covered bodies colliding with my legs. I scoop them up effortlessly, laughing as they wrap their arms around my neck.

“I’ve been gone for just three days, and I’ve already been replaced, huh?”

Nico shakes his head furiously. “Uh-uh! I missed you lots, Daddy!”

“I missed you too, Daddy!” Mia echoes, squeezing me tighter.

I press a kiss to each of their cheeks, their giggles filling my ears. Mia pulls back, pointing at my lips, eyes wide. "Daddy, your mouth is white!"

I run my tongue over them and, sure enough, I taste the flour. I huff out a laugh before turning my gaze toward Whitney. She’s standing near the counter, using a napkin to clean off her arms.

“Hi,” she says, a small smile on her lips. “Welcome back.”

I lower the kids; my gaze never leaves hers. “Good to be back.” I pause, glancing around at the mess. “But…, should I even ask what’s going on here?”

She clears her throat, feigning innocence. “Well, we were baking cookies and, uh, the flour gods descended upon us and demanded we appease them.”

I arch a brow. “Is that so?”

“Yep. Had to be done.” She shrugs.

I chuckle, shaking my head.

She presses her lips together, but the corner of her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile.

“Well, if that’s the case…” I step forward, dipping my fingers into the nearest flour bag. “I think I should pay my respects too.”

Before she can react, I flick a light puff of flour at her.

She gasps, staring at me, scandalized. The twins let out identical shrieks of excitement. “You did not just…?”

I grin. “Oh, I did.”

And just like that, the fight resumes. Laughter fills the kitchen as flour flies through the air, dusting all of us until we’re a complete mess.

“You know you can’t win?”

I cross my arms, feigning confidence. “I’m a pro athlete, Whit. I think I can handle a little flour fight.”

She hums, her lips twitching like she’s holding back a smile. “You’re also slow and predictable.”

I scoff. “Slow? Predictable?”

“Mmmm,” she suddenly lifts her hand and smears flour right across my jawline.

I blink.

She grins. “Told you.”

The twins burst into laughter.

I let out a low chuckle, shaking my head. “Okay, that was a cheap shot.”

“No, that was strategy.”

At some point, she spins away to avoid another attack, and I step forward at the same time - too close, too fast. She stumbles into me, her hands instinctively gripping my arms to steady herself.

For a second, we just…, freeze.

Her face is inches from mine, her breath warm against my skin. I catch the faint scent of vanilla and something sweet - probably whatever they were baking.

She blinks up at me, eyes flickering with something unreadable. I don’t move. Neither does she. There’s a moment - just a second - where we’re caught in something unspoken.

The past. The tension. The familiarity.

“You good?” I murmur.

She swallows. “Yeah. You?”

“Hard to say.” I glance down between us, where her hands still rest against my arms. “You seem pretty comfortable there.”

Her lips part slightly, but instead of pulling away, she lifts a brow, eyes twinkling. “You think I want to be holding onto you?”

I smirk. “Well, you haven’t let go yet.”

She exhales sharply, like she just realized it herself, and immediately drops her hands, stepping back. “You’re insufferable.”

“Good to know some things never change.”

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, congratulations, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I give her a lopsided smirk before tossing another handful of flour her way.

Then the twins tug on my arms, giggling and shouting for more flour throwing, breaking the moment.

Whitney takes a step back, brushing her hands together. “Well, I think the flour gods have been appeased enough for one night.”

I clear my throat, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah. Probably a good idea before the kitchen is completely unrecognizable.”

She smiles and grabs a towel, tossing one at me. “Here. Clean yourself up, champ.”

I catch it easily, chuckling. It’s too easy to fall into this. Too easy to forget how complicated things are.

“Come on, guys, time to go meet the water gods and make a mess I am going to clean up later,” she says, ushering the kids out of the kitchen.

I stare at her. At them.

Am I crazy? I probably am because the thought of not wanting this to end and thinking of ways to keep her here enters my mind again for the twentieth, or is it the fortieth time?