Page 142 of The Play Maker

I glance up, scanning the stands, finding her in seconds.

Maisie’s leaning forward against the railing, the crowd packed tight around her, but she’s the only thing I see. Her hair’s tucked into the collar of her puffer jacket, and she’s squinting through the glass, scanning the ice.

Searching for me.

And when her gaze finally locks onto mine, she smiles. Slow. Soft. My heart thuds like I’ve taken a puck to the chest. That smile of hers floors me. Every single time.

I skate a little closer, grinning up at her. I tap my stick against the boards and blow her a kiss, because I’m an idiot and I don’t know what else to do with all this—whatever the hell it is that’s been building, shifting, twisting in my chest since the second I met her.

One corner of her mouth tips up. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, but she’s still smiling as she lifts the cup and takes a sip out of her drink.

God, I’m a goner.

“Jesus, get a room,” Logan mutters as he coasts by.

“You’re just jealous ‘cause your last hookup ghosted you,” I shoot back with a grin.

Logan tuts, shaking his head. “Correction. I ghosted him.”

I let out a scoff. “Yeah, somehow I don’t believe you.”

Logan holds a hand to his chest. “Unbelievable. No faith in your boy.”

Nathan doesn’t say anything from behind his goalie mask as he stretches near the crease.

“Alright, focus,” Ryan yells as he skates to center ice, voice sharp over the buzz of the crowd. “We can take these guys. Coach said if we win, wings are on him.”

“Tell him I want extra fries,” I call, coasting up beside him.

“You’ll get celery sticks and you’ll fucking thank me for it,” Coach shouts from behind the bench.

I laugh, but my stomach’s buzzing. Not hunger or nerves, just pure fucking adrenaline on steroids. There’s something about tonight. Maybe it’s the home crowd, maybe it’s that I saw Maisie, maybe it’s the fact that my mom and sister are somewhere up in those stands, watching.

Cole doesn’t say a word. Just cracks his neck and chews his gum like he’s ready to body slam someone through the glass.

Ryan glances around the line-up. Nods once.

We line up. Puck drop.

Game fucking on.

Nathan makes a sick glove save early on—snatches the puck right out of the air. Logan picks up the rebound, swings it to Ryan, and I’m already moving, skating like my life depends on it. Ryan sends a clean pass up center. I take it and cut left, fast, ducking past one defender, then two.

Then I fake right and shoot.

Goal.

Top shelf, baby.

We’re up 1–0 before the five-minute mark.

“Let’s fucking go.” I skate toward the guys and fist-bump Logan.

Second period, we’re still holding the lead. Cole nails a breakaway, stone-cold expression the whole way down the ice, and slaps one into the back of the net. We’re on fire tonight. Tight passes. Clean shifts. Our D is solid, and Nathan’s a wall back there. They’ve only managed to score once tonight, and if we keep it up, we’ll get the win.

I get another goal midway through the third and the place erupts in cheers.

I wanna look so bad, wanna sneak a peek to the stands and see if they’re out there cheering for me.