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CHAPTER ELEVEN

LEDGER

T he cold hits differently once you’ve sweat through your base layer.

It's not cold anymore—just sharp, alive, like the air has teeth.

I watch as Magallan crouches low, waiting for the puck to drop.

My stick trembles just slightly from the adrenaline—not nerves.

Not anymore, anyway. Any nerves I had burned off in the first period.

The puck drops, and I’m off, legs churning, lungs burning, edges biting into the ice like I’m carving my name into it.

We’re tied midway through the second period and I know how much we’re itching to pull out the win.

Coach told us to keep the pressure high, stay aggressive on the boards—so I’m flying up the left side like my skates are on fire.

My stick hugs the ice. I can practically hear the heavy breathing of Minnesota’s defenseman, Jake Pearch, as he tries to keep my pace.

He’s got reach, but I’ve got speed, and in this game, speed makes liars out of giants.

Magallan shoots the puck to Blackstone who threads a pass through two defenders, crisp and fast to me. It’s not perfect—but it doesn’t have to be. I trap it off my skate, control it on the blade, and I’m in deep before anyone realizes I never slowed down.

Fuckin’ fools.

The corner comes fast and I brace for impact. Pearch meets me shoulder-to-shoulder—hard—and I know I’ll be feeling that one tomorrow. The boards shake but I don’t fall, thank Christ. I dig in, spin myself around, and protect the puck like it’s something holy.

“You’re going to have to try harder than that, Pearch!” I shout at him, wishing he could see my smirk through my cage.

“Left point! “ someone shouts, probably Ollenberg. I glance back, fake the pass, and cut in instead. Damn! My edgework is clean today. The ice spits up behind me as I turn hard toward the slot and that’s when I see the gap.

A heartbeat of space between the goalie and the net.

“Do it Dayne!” Ollenberg shouts.

Taking his lead, I shoot my shot. The puck lifts—snaps off my stick with that sweet, stinging release that feels like an extension of muscle and nerve and instinct.

It hits the crossbar. My heartrate stops.

For half a second everything moves in slow motion as the game and everything in it sharpens to perfect clarity.

The net, the gap near the goalie’s pad, the way his glove is just a little too high.

Ping .

The puck drops in and the red-light flares behind the net.

“Let’s fucking go!” I yell with my arms up in victory as I sail across the ice to my teammates. They crash in behind me as I skate along the glass.

“Fuck yeah, Dayne!”

“Great play, Ledge!”

“That’a boy Ledger!”

It’s only our first scrimmage of the season, I get it, but coming out strong is important to us as a team. It sets the tone for the rest of the season. We’re grinning like fools, yelling through our cages, sticks raised, but there's no time to celebrate.

I’m back on the bench thirty seconds later, legs shaking from the shift, sucking down water like it’s air. Coach pats my shoulder and meets my eye with a crooked smirk as if to say Yep. That’s how you do it , but instead he says, “Lookin’ good out there, Dayne.”

I nod in response because hell yeah, I look good out there. I lean forward and keep my eyes on the ice, my body already preparing for my next shift, because I’m the left wing. This side of the ice is mine. And tonight, I’ll be damned if anyone tries to take it from me.

The press room is packed. Cameras flash and reporters hold recorders or phones toward the small podium where I sit—still damp from my uniform, a hoodie over a game-worn t-shirt

I nod toward Blakely Rivers, our newest member of the Anaheim Press Corps. She’s not the only female in the room as it appears that Minnesota has three, but Blakely is the first female reporter on Anaheim’s team and because of that, I want to make sure she gets to ask her questions first.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I happen to know she’s close with Marlee.

“Ledger, you had the game-winning goal tonight. Walk us through that play—what did you see out there?” Blakely asks, her phone stretched toward me.

Leaning on the podium a bit, I answer her the only way I know how.

“Honestly? Chaos. Their defense shifted wide, left just enough room in the slot. Ollenberg fed me a great pass so I didn’t overthink it. Just saw the opportunity and took my shot.”

“Were you aiming for his five-hole, or was that instinct?”

“Bit of both, I think. I knew their goalie was known to leave small gaps when he resets. I’ve watched enough film to know where he leans.” I shrug. “I was lucky really. The timing just lined up.”

“Last question,” she says, her tone changing. “Any off-ice motivation behind the fire you brought to the game tonight?”

Whoa…fuck.

Her question catches me completely off guard and when my eyes lift to hers I swear to God I see the quickest of winks.

She knows.

She has to know.

She’s doing this on purpose.

What the hell do I say?

I can’t put my feelings for Marlee out there for the whole world to know.

But fuck yeah, she’s motivation.

She was motivation on the plane to not fall asleep so I could watch her as she talked and laughed with other front office staffers.

She was motivation to have a fulfilling work-out this morning.

Her smile and laugh kept me going on the treadmill, and knowing she was watching the game tonight from somewhere in the arena was reason enough for me to play my absolute best. I mean I know it’s my job to give it my all on the ice and that’s always my plan, but I’ll admit, if I can impress the girl at the same time?

Win-fucking win.

“Uh…sure. There’s always off-ice motivation. I aim to keep the fans happy. My love and respect for the people of Anaheim is what keeps me playing hard every time.”

Blakely nods, giving me a crooked smirk and I give her one right back. “Thanks Ledger.”

“Thank you,” I tell her before I nod at the next press member and take his questions.

The locker room is chaos in that gritty, half-sweaty, half-victorious way when I finally make it to the shower. Towels snap, jokes fly, and the air smells like victory and happiness. Everyone's riding the high of the 2–1 win. Even Coach Hicks is smiling like he just won the fucking lottery.

I’m quieter than usual but I’m also smiling to myself and shaking my head when I think about that night I spent dancing with Marlee in my living room chanting to the fertility Gods.

I remember she asked if I had experience in this type of ceremony before a game.

Seriously, I can’t even look at Barrett Cunningham right now without envisioning him bouncing around a damn campfire with Betty White asking for something like poles and goals.

I towel off and dress back into my suit and then wait just long enough for the others to start filtering out toward the bus in the cold night air.

Minnesota in the fall is a sharp contrast in temperature from California.

I turn the corner to the gate where our exit is for the bus and feel her before I see her.

Marlee stands a few feet away, her eyes on her screen as she types something into her phone.

She’s dressed in a pair of tight blue jeans and an Anaheim Stars long sleeved shirt that’s partly tucked in at the waist. Her matching blue Vans give her a cute and trendy vibe that I can appreciate.

Her beautiful chocolate-colored hair that she usually wears in a ponytail or braid is pinned partly up with a clip in the back while the rest hangs down her back in soft ringlets.

It’s all I can do to not walk right up to her and run my fingers through it.

Hell, it’s all I can do to not sweep her off her feet and squeeze the shit out of her in a huge hug.

A small part of me was disappointed when she wasn’t standing with the other family members outside the locker room right after the game.

But then I remembered that she has a job to do just like me and even if she was there, it’s not like I could have scooped her up and kissed her the way Griffin kisses Layken or Bodhi does with Corrigan.

Nope.

As much as it pains me to have to admit it, I’m just the sperm donor in Marlee’s life. Maybe one day, if I’m super fucking lucky, she’ll see me as more, but for now, I’ll have to be satisfied taking whatever crumbs she throws my way.

Approaching her slowly, she finally looks up from her phone and when she does, her eyes light up and a smile crosses her face.

“Hey Ledger.”

“Marlee.” I nod.

“Damn good shot you had tonight,” she says with a smirk. “Congratulations.”

I glance around the space where we stand together. One of our trainers walks by but pays us no attention. A door slams somewhere down the hall. Technically, we’re alone, though not really. At least, we’re not alone in the way I wish we could be.

“You saw that, huh?”

She lifts a shoulder. “I might have seen a replay.”

Her answer makes me chuckle.

Oh, this is how she’s going to play this?

She’s teasing me.

Cute.

“The replay.”

“Mhmm.” She twists the corner of her mouth and I know she’s trying to hide her guilty grin.

I take another step closer to her, the distance between us is less than three feet and hell if it doesn’t buzz like a live wire.

I want to touch her arm or her cheek. Brush her hand.

Tell her how pretty she looks. Just— something .

Anything. But anyone could come around the corner.

A coach. A teammate. A headline waiting to happen.

And I don’t want to put her in a position she doesn’t want to be in.

I mean, I do.

I want to put her in all sorts of positions.

But not this one.

So instead, I shift a little closer to her. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can safely lower my voice and not be overheard.

“I’m sorry you missed the live action. Maybe next time I’ll spot you cheering in the crowd.”