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CHAPTER 29

ALEXEI

The only thing as beautiful as Emery coming apart for me is Emery trying hard, hours later, to not to look like she remembers coming apart for me.

I get that gift over and over again.

Over breakfast.

When I make her sit next to me on the couch so I can practice braiding Inessa’s hair.

As I kiss Inessa goodbye before heading to the rink for morning skate, and Emery is right there , so I buss a quick kiss on her cheek, too.

When I get back and catch them playing mini sticks again, and her wide-eyed gaze flies to my face, and I know she’s thinking about how breathless and sweaty she got for me upstairs in the gym.

It’s the strangest, most wonderful feeling, all bubbly and powerful. I want to bottle it just in case it’s a difference maker in tonight’s game.

Emery and Inessa leave right after naptime, heading downtown to a WAG gathering with a big duffel bag of supplies Emery tells me I don’t need to worry about.

“Are you going to wear one of my jerseys tonight?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “You’d like that.”

“Very much. And if you don’t, I’m climbing over the plexiglass and giving you the jersey off my back.”

She snickers. “You saw that on TikTok.”

“Someone shared it to the group chat. Said it was romantic.”

Her cheeks slash with heat. “I don’t want romance.”

“I know.” I lower my voice, even though we’re basically alone and Inessa is happily playing. “You want dirty talk and secrets.”

Her eyes flare wide in warning. Don’t .

I don’t really understand why not, when the chemistry between us is so undeniable, but I accept that she needs a pause after we burn that bright.

“I see you,” I murmur. “And fine. I won’t pretend I can scale twelve feet of boards and glass. But if you don’t wear my jersey tonight, I’m bringing another one home for your collection, moya polovinka.”

“The horror,” she whispers before winking at me and whisking my daughter out the door.

After they leave, I go downstairs to have coffee with my parents in the basement.

My mother pats the couch seat beside her. “How is my son?”

“I’ve got a big game tonight.”

“We’ll be watching.” She wraps her arm through mine and leans against me. “And Emery will be there.”

I’ve been waiting for her to bring up Emery. It was probably wishful thinking to hope they wouldn’t notice how I look at her. How I feel about her.

“Mama, she’s leaving after the season is over. Don’t hope for another happy ending.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. She makes you happy.”

“And she always will, even when she’s in Switzerland.”

“Switzerland!”

“It’s a long story. She’s following her dreams.”

“Silly girl. She should dream of marrying a handsome goalie.”

I laugh out loud. “Oh, Mama. That’s nobody’s dream, I hate to tell you.”

My father brings a mug to my mother, with extra milk just the way she likes it. “Are you waiting for someone to dream of you?”

I frown. “No.”

“Whatever her dream is, you make that happen. And then you will be her dream, too.”

“I didn’t come down here for relationship advice, because I do not have a relationship. I also don’t have time for a relationship.”

Literally the only interrupted time I’ve managed to find with Emery was pre-dawn. The thrill of that is going to wear off sooner than later for her.

We don’t have a relationship. We have a secret connection. It’s intense and profound, and while I will never forget her, I know the part of our story where we are actually together is temporary.

* * *

It doesn’t stop me from looking for her as soon as we skate onto the ice for the warmup that night, and my chest gets warm and puffs up as soon as I catch sight of her at the glass.

And my heart beats faster.

Moya polovinka.

She’s in the VIP area, holding Inessa up, helping her stand on the narrow ledge of the boards.

They’re both wearing my number, and I’m glad my parents aren’t here to see that, because how do I explain this isn’t a relationship?

It’s just not.

It can’t be.

But I’m not lying to myself about how good it feels that, for the time that I do have her, she’s giving me this—no scaling of the glass required.

Even bruised, Emery Granger’s big heart is a thing of wonder.

After stopping to high-five Inessa through the glass and give Emery a blush-inducing wink, I join my teammates in the looping warm up flow.

Calgary is doing the same thing on the other half of the ice, and the tension is already crackling.

I break away from the group, slide into the crease, and drop into my rhythm—glide, stretch, butterfly, pop back up. Talk to the net, praise the posts. The usual routine.

But at the same time, I’m clocking the energy in front of me.

On our side of the ice, Armstrong looks like a lion who has been just let out of his pen. More than once, he looks towards the VIP area. His girlfriend, Shannon, is standing at the back of the WAGs, and they don’t stay at the glass for very long.

Once they leave, he starts prowling back and forth at the centre red line. It doesn’t take long for Max Tilman to start mirroring him on the Calgary side. He’s a sharp-looking player, sleek like a panther, and while Armstrong outweighs him by a good twenty pounds or more, Tilman has speed on his side, and the sharp snap of his skates on the ice as he picks up his pace sounds…violent. There’s no way around that.

I’m too far away to hear if they say anything to each other, but it doesn’t take long for Marsh to cut his warm-up short, grab Rusty, and push him to the exit.

Tilman stays on the ice.

The warm-up clock ticks down, and the number of people still stretching and skating starts to dwindle.

Haler is often the last one on the ice, but when he comes over to start rounding up pucks at the net, I tell him I’ll stay out and be the last man off if he wants to go check on Rusty.

“You sure?”

“It’s my barn too, Captain.”

He grins at me. “Sure fucking is.”

Which leaves me as the final Highlander on the ice, a sentinel waiting for Calgary to clear out. Two of my former teammates are still circling, shooting pucks in their net, and the third player with them is the man who I was traded for.

They’re talking to each other, and I think they’re trying to get him off the ice, but he won’t leave.

The time runs out, and I stop circling my net and go to stand in front of it.

Waiting.

Fans start booing, and then someone jeers at him. “Get off our ice, Tilman.”

I stand taller again.

“Off our ice, off our ice, off our ice.”

He twists and slaps a puck in my direction.

I don’t move.

It goes wide, utterly harmless.

He stares at me, then turns and heads down the visitor tunnel.

I’m sure that won’t be the last time tonight he shoots a puck my way. The rest of his shots will be closer, faster, and actually count if they get through me.

But I’m not worried, because after that pathetic display, I don’t think Max Tilman returned to play hockey.

He came to pour poison on this ice—but I’m not letting it anywhere near my net.

I raise my stick in a salute to the crowd, then head back to the dressing room.

It’s fucking quiet.

Not silent, exactly—there’s tape being ripped, skates being re-laced, and someone is tapping on their shin guards with the butt end of their stick—but there’s no chatter.

There’s something to prove tonight, and it’s probably going to get rough.

I’ve heard all about the day that fractured this team. Hooner and Dodaj both need to process everything out loud—even if I’m just a silent sounding board. So while I wasn’t here for the brawl, I can clearly picture it. The shoving match on the ice during practice, and the escalation in the middle of this very dressing room that led to a fractured jaw. The details that spilled out about Tilman’s marriage falling apart, and Armstrong being in the midst of that.

Front office had no choice but to do something .

I was the something.

So I didn’t see the big break up of the original expansion team, but I’ve had a front row seat for the fallout.

And tonight I’ll be in net. A different kind of front row seat.

Across from me, Armstrong is rolling his shoulders. Definitely ready for a rematch. Hale has one eye on the big Scotsman. Watanabe’s bouncing his leg like a live wire. Beside me, Zondi hasn’t blinked in two minutes.

Even Marshie looks tense, and nothing ruffles him.

I wonder what was said before I came back from warm-up.

The door swings open and our coach walks in. He’s tense, too. “All right. Let’s keep it clean and focused. We don’t need a circus.”

A few of the guys nod. Rusty cracks his neck with a sound like thunder.

Coach looks at each of us in turn. “Play our game. Be smart. We’re on a roll. Home ice advantage in the playoffs is within reach, fellas, so eyes on that prize. We’re not trying to make a point tonight—we are the point.”

That lands. I can feel the ripple it causes.

Then a low rumble of agreement rolls through the room.

That’s all we need to prove tonight. That we are one.

Hale stands. “Let’s do this, then. Tonight we’re starting with the beasts. We’ve got Marshie at centre with Rusty and Gusty on the wings. Mo and Smash behind them on D. And in the net, our stoic Russian, Arty’s going for win number seven. Let’s fucking go.”

“Let’s fucking go,” the whole team says as one.

I stand, shake out my legs, then give Hale a fist pump as I lead the team into the hallway. Toward the thunderous noise building in the stands.

At the mouth of the tunnel, just before the ice comes into view, the team always has a few kids waiting to cheer us on.

Tonight, Charlie and Inessa are waiting there, wearing tiny Highlanders hoodies. Becca kneels behind them, holding on tight to both kids as they jockey for space with some bigger kids.

Inessa spots me and breaks into a grin so wide her cheeks puff out. “Papa!”

I crouch down, ignoring the tight pull of my pads. “My good luck charm.”

She holds up her hand. I offer my blocker and she slaps it, then switches and goes for the glove. Double tap. Serious face.

“Win the game,” she says with firm, toddler authority.

“Yes, coach,” I murmur, and she giggles.

I glance up and catch Emery watching me from the back of the crowd, her eyes soft.

I don’t let myself look too long, just long enough that she knows I see her.

And then I turn, tug my mask down, and leave everything but the battle behind.