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CHAPTER 26

LOGAN

T he phone buzzed in my pocket, and when I saw the name on the screen, I didn’t want to answer. But I’d learned over the years, that only made my father more aggressive—when he didn’t feel like my first priority. I pressed the phone to my ear, already feeling the tension tightening in my chest.

“Logan.” My dad’s voice came through the line, smooth and commanding, as if he were about to announce something that everyone should stop and listen to. “I’ll be at Game Seven with a television crew. They’re making a documentary on me, and they want to capture this moment.”

I clenched my jaw, feeling the familiar knot of frustration build in my gut. I bet the cameras were on him right now. He always found a way to make everything about him. Of course, he’d be using my Stanley Cup Final for his own spotlight. I took a breath, steadying myself before I responded.

“Don’t come,” I said flatly.

There was a beat of silence on the other end, and then his voice sharpened. “Excuse me?”

I could picture his expression—probably the same cold, shocked look I’d seen a thousand times. Like when I’d gotten suspended at school for fighting. Or when I’d gotten that first tattoo without his permission. Or after he found out I quit football to pursue hockey.

But this wasn’t the same as before. This time, I didn’t care about what he thought.

“All my life,” I started, my voice tighter than I intended, “I wanted you to be proud of me. You never were. It was just the two of us after Mom left, and I spent every second of my life hoping you’d look at me the way other fathers looked at their sons. But you never did. You ignored me. You used me to brag to your friends. And now, you want to show up to my Game Seven and claim a piece of it? You don’t get to support my legacy for yourself when you’ve never supported me a single day of my life.”

There was another long silence on the line. I could hear his breath, the tension creeping in, the way it always did before he lashed out. But this time, I wasn’t afraid. I wasn’t a kid waiting for him to tell me I wasn’t good enough.

“Who do you think paid for your hockey all those years growing up?” he snapped, his voice low, defensive. “I paid for every damn thing you ever needed on the ice. Your equipment, your travel, your coaching.”

I laughed bitterly. “Did you even notice the money coming out of your account, or did you think of it as a type of nanny, so you didn’t have to deal with me? You were off living your life. Remind me…how many games of mine did you go to growing up?”

There was another beat of silence as I waited for him to answer, but we both knew what the number was.

Zero.

“Don’t act like you did something noble. You never cared about me.”

The words hung heavy between us, and I could hear his breathing, sharp and angry. But he didn’t say anything. He never had an answer when it came to the truth.

“If you show up to that game,” I continued, my voice cold, “you’ll be escorted out. You’re not going to stand there with your cameras and act like you’ve been the reason for any of this. Because you haven’t. You don’t deserve to be a part of everything now.”

He sputtered, starting to say something, but I didn’t wait to hear it. I hung up, tossing the phone onto the couch beside me, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Sloane came out of my bedroom, fiddling with the earring she was trying to put in her ear.

“Everything okay?” she asked. “Why were you yelling?”

Someday I would tell her about my dad, but not today. After all, she was the main reason I’d just gotten the courage to tell him off like that for the first time in my life. Because more so than even how I felt about my best friends—she made me feel like I had my own family now. She was my future.

“It was nothing,” I murmured when I realized I was just staring down at her.

“You’re going to be amazing,” she whispered.

“No doubt about that,” I grinned, and she huffed, like she didn’t think I was sexy.

“What about now, Sloane? You in love with me yet?”

She flushed and started for the door, glancing back at me with a gorgeous smile. “You’re still talking crazy, Logan York.”

“But I’m getting close, Calloway.”

She didn’t tell me any different.

I ignored the buzzing in my pocket, no doubt a barrage of texts from my father telling me off for daring to disrespect him like that.

And I was smiling as we walked out the door to get to my game.

* * *

“I can’t even make a joke right now,” Walker said, running his hand down his face. There was a green tinge to his skin, like he was going to be sick.

Ari stared at him incredulously. “What does that even mean? When do you make jokes? Of the five of us, you’re literally the least funny.”

I preened at the idea that I was funnier than at least one person in the group—even though I was very aware that wasn’t exactly high praise— not being last. It only took a second, though, for me to remember that I was also nervous as fuck, and I couldn’t be funny right now if I tried.

Walker gaped at him. “You take that back right now, Lancaster. I am funny. And certainly funnier than Hero and Rookie.”

Ari cocked his head, wrapping the tape on his stick for the second time of the evening. “Are you though, are you?”

Walker glanced at Lincoln, his eyes like a little puppy dog’s as he waited for Lincoln to step in.

Lincoln wasn’t listening; he had a…terrifying look on his face that told me he was getting in the zone. His ankle seemed to be all healed up. He had ended up being able to play for a period last game and had even scored a goal. That made me feel a little less nauseated, that we had him on our side.

Ari snorted. “Golden Boy is being spooky sexy right now. He’s not going to help you with this one, Disney.”

Walker’s fist went to his lips, and from the looks of it, he’d just thrown up in his mouth.

Fuck. It was one thing for me to be nervous…but quite another for our goalie to be feeling it this bad.

I cleared my throat. “Um, Linc?”

He glanced over, seeming unimpressed that I was daring to interrupt his…whatever he was doing. I nodded at Walker, although I was really referring to myself. “Maybe a speech or something would be good.”

Lincoln eyed Walker like his nerves were contagious and shook his head. He moved to the center of the locker room, though, his skates clacking softly on the floor. “All right, boys,” he started, his voice low but steady. Everyone immediately stopped talking and turned their attention to Lincoln like he’d actually yelled.

“Tonight—it’s different. Tonight, everything we’ve fought for, everything we’ve sacrificed, comes down to this game. One shot. One chance to write our names into the history books.”

His eyes swept over us, and the tension in the room shifted. It wasn’t anxiety anymore. It was focus. Raw, burning focus.

“They’ll tell you it’s just another game,” he continued, his voice hardening. “But we know better. This is the game. The one we’ve bled for all season. You’ve got bruises from the last six games? Good. That means you’ve been fighting. You’re tired? Hell, I hope you’re tired, because that means you’ve been giving everything you’ve got. But let me tell you something—tired doesn’t matter. Pain doesn’t matter. Not tonight.”

I swallowed hard, feeling my heart thump harder in my chest.

Lincoln clenched his fists, pacing in front of us now. “We know what’s waiting for us out there. We’ve seen it. We’ve felt it. But none of that matters. What matters is this room, right here. Us. The Dallas Knights.”

He stopped in front of Walker, those sharp eyes locking on him for just a beat.

“We’ve been in the trenches together. We’ve crawled out of every damn hole they’ve tried to bury us in. And now? Now we’re here, with the Cup hanging right in front of us.” His voice grew harder, every word hitting like a punch. “They don’t think we can do it. They’re waiting for us to fold. But we’re not folding. Not tonight. Tonight, we show the world who we are.”

He stepped back, eyes blazing. “You’ve got sixty minutes to play the game of your life. Sixty minutes to leave everything you’ve got on that ice. You’re not skating for yourself. You’re skating for the guy next to you. You’re skating for every bruise, every hit, every fucking moment that got us here. This is our night.”

I felt the fire surge through me, the same fire I could see in every other guy in that room. It was like Lincoln had struck a match, and we were all ready to burn for that Cup.

Lincoln’s voice dropped again, the final edge of intensity hanging on every word. “So, let’s go out there, and let’s take what’s ours.”

With that, he slammed his stick against the floor, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. One by one, we stood, the energy boiling up, the tension snapping into something sharp, something deadly. This wasn’t just a game anymore. It was a battle.

I locked eyes with Walker, who looked slightly less green. He gave me a tight nod, his eyes gleaming with the same fire that was roaring through my veins.

Ari raised his stick in the air. “And now…we dance.”

We all glanced at him, right as “Shake It Off” started blaring through the locker room speakers.

Lincoln huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Hell of a speech, Golden Boy,” Ari said, his eyes gleaming. “I’m feeling inspired. But tradition is tradition.”

“Kill me now,” Lincoln groaned.

“Not happening, Cap. We’re shaking it off .”

I started with my “moonwalk,” and Camden grumbled about me stealing his move.

Within seconds, the room devolved into chaos. Walker, evidently void of his previous nerves, jumped up onto the bench, pumping his fists in the air and yelling the lyrics like his life depended on it. Camden was doing some kind of interpretive dance that looked more like he was trying to dodge invisible punches, and Ari…had taken center stage, belting out the words like he was auditioning for The Voice .

“Play, play, play, play, play!” Ari shouted, pointing at Lincoln, who was trying very hard to look disinterested but was tapping his foot anyway.

“Stop pretending you don’t like it!” Ari hollered at Lincoln, who rolled his eyes but finally cracked a grin.

“Fine,” Lincoln muttered, starting to shake his ass.

Ari grabbed Lincoln’s hand and spun him abruptly around like they were in a ballroom competition. Lincoln stumbled, his face turning red, but instead of yelling, he actually laughed—a rare sound that made everyone pause for half a second before bursting into cheers.

The door opened.

Coach Porter stepped in, clipboard in hand, and froze mid-step. The music was still blasting, and Ari had just attempted a jump-split that ended with him sprawled on the floor.

Coach surveyed the room like a general inspecting a battlefield, his face utterly blank. Finally, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “This is the team I’m taking into Game Seven?”

“Yes, sir!” Ari shouted from the floor, offering a thumbs-up.

Coach shook his head, muttering something about “fucking embarrassments.”

Lincoln straightened up, smoothing his jersey like he hadn’t just been twirled across the room. “We’ve got this, Coach.”

Coach’s gaze swept over us, his lips twitching like he was trying not to laugh. “Let’s fucking hope so.”

The intensity of the room suddenly snapped up, like the combination of Lincoln’s speech and Ari’s…stress reliever had magical powers. We were all ready to go.

“As my darling, angel-poo of a wife says, ‘It’s only weird if it doesn’t work,’ Coach,” Ari offered as we lined up to walk down the tunnel.

Coach Porter shook his head.

“I don’t think she was the one who came up with that,” Camden muttered.

There was a smile on my lips as we headed toward the ice. And my nerves…they were nowhere to be found.