Page 14

Bree

The VIP suite has a glass wall looking down onto the ice—elevated enough to see the whole rink but close enough to feel every hit and hear every slice of skates.

I glance around at our ‘Heroes Night’ guests: Clara nursing a beer beside me, two vets from my advisory board near the refreshments, and a crew of kids from the oncology ward where Ken volunteers weekly.

Charlie, one of his favorite troublemakers, is pressed against the glass, practically vibrating with excitement.

His hospital liaison stands nearby, smiling.

"So explain this to me again," Clara says as the teams take the ice. "They hit the little black thing with sticks?"

Charlie spins around from his spot at the window. "Want me to explain hockey, Miss Clara? Ken taught me everything!"

"Hit me, professor."

Charlie launches into an enthusiastic explanation, complete with hand gestures. "So there's three periods, and Ken plays forward, which means he scores go als. And when one player gets three goals in one game, that's a hat trick!"

"A hat trick?" Clara smirks at me. "Like Magic Ken making his clothes disappear? Now that's a trick I'd throw my hat for—"

"Clara!" I glance at Charlie, but he's already back to watching warmups.

"He did it!" Charlie suddenly shouts, waving frantically. "Ken winked at us! Did you see?"

I saw. Ken always checks our box during warmups, and tonight his smile seems extra confident.

NHL scouts are watching tonight. One good game, and Ken could be out of the minors for good. This game could change everything.

Below the jumbotron flashing "Heroes Night," the Dayton Devils and the visiting L.A. Kings line up for the opening faceoff. Ken and Ashton flank their center, matching intensity in their stance.

"Those are our boys," I tell Clara, who's fanning herself with a flimsy white slip of paper, crinkled at the edges.

“Is that this week’s lottery ticket?”

Clara waves it like a fan. “ Mega Millions rollover. Two hundred thirty-two fucking million.”

I blink. “You and ninety million other dreamers.”

“Yeah, well... someone’s gotta win.” She tucks it back into her purse. “Manifesting my filthy rich era. Anyway, keep going.”

"Ken and my brother work together on the first line—"

"Translation: they're the good ones," Charlie pipes in. "The ones who score lots."

The puck drops, and the game explodes into motion. Ken intercepts a pass, drives toward the Kings' zone with that fluid grace that first caught my eye three years ago. But this time he's not dancing around a pole—he's slicing through defenders like they're standing still.

"Damn," one of the veterans—Mike—mutters appreciatively. "Kid's got wheels."

"And other assets," Clara whispers, making me choke on my drink.

The first period is brutal. The Kings came to play dirty, targeting Ken and Ashton with late hits and cheap shots. After one particularly vicious check sends Ken into the boards, I grip my armrest so hard my knuckles go white.

Charlie’s nose is pressed to the glass, eyes tracking Ken like he’s watching a superhero in real time."He's okay," he assures me. "Ken's tough. He told me hockey players are like warriors—we both have to be strong when it hurts."

To these kids, every goal he scores is theirs too. Ken doesn’t just visit on Thursdays—he brings them along for the ride. Teaches them strategy, shows them post-game footage, breaks down plays like they’re training for the big leagues.

So when Ken hits the ice tonight, it’s not just for a scout or a stat. It’s for them. For every little warrior in that oncology ward who thinks stickhandling through chemo might just be possible if Ken can pull off a hat trick.

My throat tightens.

I can’t help but think he’d make a ridiculously good dad. The kind who’d show up every time. The kind who’d make every scar feel like a badge of honor.

Too bad I’ve never pictured kids in my future.

I shake the thought off like stray confetti. Focus, Bree.

The second period starts with the Devils down 1-0. Ken and Ashton work their magic, setting up plays that have the Kings scrambling. Five minutes in, it happens—Ken steals the puck at center ice, passes to Ashton, gets it back through two defenders, and rifles it top corner.

The arena erupts. Jimmy jumps up and down. "That's one! Two more for a hat trick!"

"Speaking of tr icks," Clara starts, but I elbow her before she can finish.

With two minutes left in the second, Ken strikes again—a beautiful solo effort, deking past their star defenseman before sliding it five-hole. 2–1, Devils.

"Did you see that move?" Annie demonstrates with her hands. "He went whoosh and then zoom and then—"

"Goal!" we all finish with her, laughing.

"Wait, what did I miss?" Clara looks up from her phone.

"Seriously? How did you miss that goal?"

"Sorry, I was checking my lottery app.”

“Anything good?”

“Nah. Another losing ticket.”

“Sorry.”

"Yeah. At this point, I've spent enough on tickets to buy my own hockey team." She eyes the ice appreciatively. "Which, now that I think about it, wouldn't be the worst investment. These hunks are... talented."

"So you're finally appreciating hockey?"

"Hockey maybe. Hockey players?" She fans herself with her phone. "I'd like to own the whole team. For purely professional reasons, of course."

“Of course.”

The third period is war. The Kings get desperate, taking runs at anyone in a Devils jersey. Ken takes another massive hit but gets up grinning, that familiar fire in his eyes. I've seen that look before—usually right before he proves someone wrong about who he really is.

With five minutes left, Ken intercepts a sloppy Kings pass. The crowd rises as he breaks away, just him and the goalie. Time seems to slow as he dekes left, pulls right, and—

The arena explodes.

"H at trick!" Charlie screams, his IV tubes swaying as he jumps. "Just like he promised!"

Clara throws her hands up in celebration. "Holy mother of all things sweaty!"

I watch as Ken takes a final lap around the ice, acknowledging the roaring crowd. He pauses below our box, raising his stick to Charlie.