Page 54 of The Girlfriend Card (Vegas Sin #4)

Let It Soak In

Ottavia

T he first period of Game Seven was about as stressful on my heart as a two-mile run. I can say that with confidence because my smart watch alerted me about my elevated heart rate and asked if I was jogging. (Haha!)

I never stopped believing the Sin could win, but that didn’t mean the game was easy to watch.

A Game Seven will always be stressful—but when the Cup is on the line?

Every puck possession felt supremely important.

Every shot the Sin took had me ready to rocket out of my seat in an outburst of ecstasy …

but every shot the Brawlers took against us terrified me.

I had so much adrenaline coursing through my bloodstream, I felt sick to my stomach . I don’t know how the players can even manage it.

But that’s Game Seven, baby.

For the first five minutes, we were the better team, and every fan in the building remained on their feet, cheering the boys on.

The Sin rode that initial wave of energy, slamming Boston into the boards at every chance, and peppering the Brawlers’ net with shots—but their goalie managed to turn every single shot away.

The funny thing about hockey is, if a team can survive an onslaught without getting scored on, momentum tends to shift the other way.

And that’s exactly what happened after the Brawlers goalie made a spectacular, diving glove save on Brett.

For the next ten minutes, the Brawlers became the team that had the Vegas fans so nervous. They dominated every inch of the ice. Our boys couldn’t even get the puck out of the defensive zone as the Brawlers kept pressuring, hitting, and cycling the puck down low.

But our goalie stood on his head, doing his part to keep the game knotted at zero.

After an action-packed beginning, the last five minutes of the period were more of a stalemate. It seemed like the teams were playing a game of tug-of-war, with the puck bouncing back and forth in the neutral zone, no progress being made on either side.

With thirty seconds remaining in the first period, it felt like nothing more would happen, that both teams were saving their energy for the second period. In fact, I saw a number of fans leave their seats to beat the intermission rush to the bathrooms and beer lines.

But the period wasn’t over just yet—and Dakota’s line was on the forecheck.

Pressuring the puck carrier, Dakota slammed his body into the Brawler, pasting him into the glass and knocking the puck loose.

But Dakota didn’t have any time to make a play—he had two Brawlers quickly converging on him—so he flung the puck around the boards into open ice instead.

It didn’t look like much was going to happen from there. Both teams arrived at the same time to contest the loose puck. A board battle ensued, with members of both teams mucking and grinding for possession.

It was the kind of hard-working possession that typified Dakota’s year. It didn’t always result in goals, but the more time and energy you made the enemy burn up chasing the puck in their own zone, the better.

But a funny thing happened when Dakota swooped by to support his teammates: the puck happened to squirt free and popped right onto his stick.

Dakota immediately zipped a pass to defenseman Cale Cotton, and then raced to the front of the net.

Cale waited for Dakota to get in front of the net, then flung a low wrist shot at the net.

It wasn’t a particularly hard or fast shot for the goalie to stop—which is, strangely, what makes such a shot so dangerous.

Dakota, standing right in front of the goalie, was able to nick his stick blade against the puck as it sailed past him. That one small tap was just enough to alter the puck’s trajectory so that it climbed a few inches up and to the left.

The Boston goalie was already set for the initial shot, and he couldn’t react to the deflection in time. The puck sailed just over his leg pad and hit the net.

And the roof of the arena nearly blew off as nineteen thousand fans jumped to their feet to celebrate with a guttural, “YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYEAH!!!!!!”

“ YES! ” I screamed, jumping up and down. I knew how much it’d mean to Dakota to get a goal in Game Seven, especially after the way last year ended.

“That’s your man, O!” Isabelle screamed, hugging me tight.

The rest of the girls all hugged and congratulated me, too. We were still ecstatically jumping up and down when the horn sounded a few moments later, and the first period came to an end.

After one period, it was 1–0, and we knew our boys could do this.

Thankfully, the rest of the game wasn’t nearly as much of a nail-biter as the first period—because I don’t think my heart could have taken forty more minutes like that!

The Sin scored early in the second period when Brett raced into the slot and ripped a wrist shot into the top of the net.

“WOO HOOOO, SHOWTIME!” McKayla cheered, and we all congratulated her on her man’s goal.

With a two-goal lead, the Sin clamped down defensively, suffocating the Brawlers’ offense—and more importantly, their will to continue.

Every denied scoring opportunity, every big save, was a blow to the Brawlers’ faith—you could see it in their body language; the frustrated head shakes, the slumped shoulders, the heavy sighs.

The third period saw goals by Brock and Connor, making Sofia one very proud WAG as the Sin took a 4–0 lead.

With only five minutes left on the clock, we were all thinking it— holy shit, we’re really going to win the Stanley Cup! —but no one wanted to say anything out of fear of jinxing it.

In fact, I was so afraid of jinxing it, I almost didn’t want to leave when a man in a suit and tie came to fetch me from my seat.

“Ms. Capuano, would you please come with me?” he asked. The lanyard around his neck identified him as an NHL official.

“What? Why?” I asked.

“As owner, it’s your honor to be on the ice when your team lifts the Cup—”

The ladies whipped their heads around, shushing the man who dared jinx us.

“HEY!!!!!!!!!”

“SHHH!!!!!”

He chuckled. “My apologies, Ms. Capuano. In the event that the Sin win the Cup, would you like to be part of the on-ice presentation?”

I hesitated. I wasn’t wild about making myself part of the show … but the ladies nudged and pushed me from behind, egging me on.

“Go, sis!”

“You totally deserve it!”

“Yeah, you GOTTA be there! We wouldn’t even have gotten this far without you!”

“Okay, fine,” I said.

My heart hammered in my chest as the official escorted me down to the ice.

I’d just made it behind the bench alongside Coach Miller, Parker, and the rest of the coaching and training staff, when the crowd began to count down the final seconds.

“Ten … nine … eight …”

With the score still 4–0, we officially had this thing in the bag—and Vegas was getting the party started early. The boys on the bench hopped up and down on their skates, hugging each other and jubilantly cheering.

Then the crowd counted off the final seconds, culminating in a triumphant roar:

“Three … two … ONE!”

The horn sounded for the final time, and the party started for real. Electricity charged the atmosphere as everyone screamed and hugged, and the Sin rushed onto the ice to form one giant team-wide hug, and streamers popped and fell through the air.

Everything was a blur. I congratulated our coaching staff, and they congratulated me, and then the two teams were shaking each other’s hands, and before I knew it, two men in white gloves were carrying the Stanley Cup onto the ice.

“Ottavia! Babe!” Dakota slid to a stop just in front of the bench.

He’d traded his helmet for a Vegas Sin Stanley Cup Champion ball cap.

His face was flushed, and sweat dripped from the ends of his hair, but the look on his face was one of pure jubilation.

He was a man on top of the world. “We won!”

“You did it!” I screamed, rushing to be closer.

“We fuckin’ did it!” He reached over the bench and pulled me into his arms. Our lips met in a salty, triumphant kiss; the culmination of his hard work and determination throughout the season.

The cheers of the crowd and the exhilaration of the victory surrounded us as we held each other close, savoring his achievement together.

“Get out here!” he said, motioning for me to join him.

“Me?!”

“Yeah, you!” He didn’t wait for me to leave the bench; he reached over and whisked me into his arms instead. Skating with me in his arms, we joined the party with the rest of his teammates at center ice, just as Rust, the team captain, raised the Cup to the sky.

His teammates cheered, howling like coyotes.

“WOOOOOOO!”

“RUSTY!!!!!!”

Then Rust passed the Cup off to Brock.

“brOCK BABY!!!”

“Fuckin’ rights, Brock-io!”

One by one, the boys took their turn with the Cup, their teammates cheering them on as they lifted and kissed the silver trophy.

Then it was Dakota’s turn. He casually took the Cup from Tank—but once he lifted it and held it over his head, let out a roar so real, so vulnerable and genuine, I couldn’t help but cry a little.

He’d worked so hard for this. He’d been through hell and back—and now here he was, on top of the world, a Stanley Cup champion.

His teammates, and the fans, both cheered loudly for him, knowing they couldn’t have won it without his hard work.

Then, after all the boys on the team had taken a turn with the Cup, it found its way to me.

“You want me to lift it?!” I asked as Dakota brought it to me.

“Hell yeah!” he said. “I’ll help you!”

He held one side of it and helped me get it in the air—that sucker was heavy !

“Otter!!!” the boys cheered, clapping for me as I held the Cup overhead.

I wasn’t wild about my locker room nickname … but at the same time, I knew that was how the boys showed their love.

“From restaurant hostess to Stanley Cup winning owner, all in a year!” Brett, my former boss at BarDown, congratulated me with a hug. “You’re the best boss I’ve ever had, Otter!”

I laughed. “Likewise!”

Dakota and I stood side by side, watching as Coach Miller, Parker, and the rest of the staff all got their turns with the Cup, too.

“I can’t believe I lifted the Cup,” I whispered to Dakota, still stunned.

“Believe it,” he said, a reverent glimmer in his eye.

He put his arm around my shoulders and held me near.

“Because we couldn’t have done any of this without you.

” He gestured at the party going on all around us—on the ice and in the stands, too.

“None of it, Ottavia. So. Let this moment soak in. Because this moment is as much yours as it is mine.”

Touched, I glanced up at his gorgeous green eyes. “Aw. Dakota! You’re such a sweetie.”

The hockey player, standing on his skates, bent down to kiss me. Standing at center ice, our lips locked, and a wild cheer went over the crowd.

We parted, and I acknowledged the crowd with an embarrassed little wave. They cheered even louder.

Dakota snickered. “They love you, you know.”

“You think so?”

“Oh yeah. For sure.” He discreetly spanked me on the ass—as discreetly as one can be when in front of nineteen thousand people, that is. “Not as much as I love you, of course.”

“I love you , too,” I said, smiling at my champion.