Page 160 of The Pucking Arrangement

Bodies slam into me—Liam first, then Finn, then the rest of the boys—hammering my back, screaming in my ear. But I barely feel them.

Because I’ve already made my decision.

My eyes snap to the family box, searching, locking onto her.

My glove comes off.

Fingers curl behind my ear. The universal call me gesture. But this time, it’s not just teasing. It’s not just playful.

It’s deliberate. It’s real.

Grinning, I lift my stick like a bow, drag it through the air, slow and deliberate—as if pulling music from silence. A cello. Her cello.

A celly just for her.

The arena erupts again, louder this time, the sound swelling to something near mythic. But there’s only one reaction I care about.

And there she is.

Mouth agape. My jersey stretched across her body, my number bold on her back, like she’s been mine all along.

Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes wide, shining, something fierce and wild and undeniable burning in them.

She leans forward against the glass, lips parted like she wants to say something, wants to scream something.

And for the first time in weeks, I breathe.

Next to her, Ris is jumping, bouncing, shouting—pure joy, pure excitement—but Erin is just staring at me. Seeing me. Understanding me.

I don’t look away.

“Finally!” Liam bellows in my ear, slapping my helmet so hard my vision rattles. “About damn time, you stubborn old goat.”

The grin that splits my face is unstoppable, like breaking through the surface after drowning.

“Figured I better score this time,” I shoot back, breathless. “Since you’re not pulling your weight.”

Liam laughs, shoving me toward the bench. “Just don’t waste any more time. I’m tired of both of your moping faces.”

Coach glares at us both, but there’s something almost like approval beneath the scowl. “If you two are done with teatime, we’ve still got a game to win.”

I nod, but my eyes drift back to Erin.

After my goal and that impulsive celly, the game shifts into pure survival mode. Vegas throws everything at us, desperation making them dangerous. Cooper nearly breaks through our defense, but I’m right on his heels, my legs burning as I chase him down.

He thinks he’s clear, but I read the move before he makes it—the slight hitch in his shoulder, the way his eyes flit toward the far post. I extend my stick, timing the poke check perfectly. Steel meets rubber with a satisfying vibration up my shaft as the puck skitters harmlessly away. The crowd goes ballistic, but it’s just white noise compared to the thundering of my own heart.

Three minutes left. Two.

Knights pulls their goalie. Six attackers against five defenders, the ice tilting in their favor. The puck pinballs around our zone, each clearing attempt thwarted, sent right back in. My lungs are on fire, but there’s no time for fatigue. Not with history on the line.

With forty seconds left, Cooper finds space in the slot. Perfect position. Perfect pass coming his way. A sure goal?—

I don’t think. Ireact.

My body launches forward, every muscle firing in unison. I become a wall, absorbing the full force of the shot.

A shockwave of pain explodes across my ribs. The world blurs—just heat, impact, the sharp crack of vulcanized rubber against my torso.

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