Page 96 of Breakaway Daddies

“Nope,” Ally says firmly. “You’re not replaceable, Jinx. Not in that locker room. Not in their lives.”

I bite my lip. “I’ve heard back from a couple of schools,” I admit, not really sure why it feels like a confession. “Good programs. Stuff I’ve always said I’d do.”

Kenzie shrugs. “You could. Or you could stay here. Doesn’t have to be forever. Doesn’t have to be anything yet. But what do you want?”

I don’t answer right away. I’m watching Thomas now, skating a little crooked, just enough that anyone else might miss it. But I don’t. I can tell he’s still favoring that ankle he sprained last month.

And Rowan, he’s still pulling up on that right side. Subtle, sure. But I know every inch of those boys, and they’re not at one hundred percent.

I could fix that.

I want to fix that.

“I might just need to talk to him,” I say.

Kenzie winks. “More signs?”

“Less glitter this time,” I say, already turning back to the ice.

The other women wave and melt into the crowd, and suddenly it’s just me and twenty thousand people screaming their faces off. I watch the last minutes of the third period unfold, nerves scraping at the inside of my ribs.

It’s tied.

4-4

One minute left on the clock.

And the other team is hungry. They’ve been getting dirtier by the shift, cheap shots, slashes behind the play, heavy hits that ride just below the penalty threshold.

Bruno takes a hit so hard that it sends his helmet spinning across the ice. Thomas stumbles into the boards and bounces back up like a damn pogo stick. Rowan…

God, Rowan is a wall, but even walls crack. He’s soaked in sweat, glove twitching, eyes locked in with laser precision.

Thirty seconds.

We get the puck. A lucky bounce off the boards, and it’s in our zone.

Bruno digs it out, flips it to Liam, who dodges a check and throws it up the ice to Thomas. And Thomas—beautiful, reckless, fast-as-hell Thomas—takes off like a shot. He’s flying, legs pumping, stick dancing.

The crowd rises as one.

Ten seconds.

Thomas fakes a pass. The defender bites.

He cuts left.

He shoots.

And for a split second, just one perfect, suspended second, everything stops.

The puck hits the top right corner of the net.

Goal horn.

Buzzer.

Pandemonium.

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