Page 59 of What if It's Us

“Emails?” Oliver suggests, helping me out.

“Yes!” I point to him. “Check your emails and make sure you’re on time for the airport. Other than that, I’m here to keep things tight behind the scenes so you can focus on playing. Let’s keep communication open and professional. If something’s not working, let me know and we’ll fix it. Thanks guys. Good luck out there."

Oh my God, that went horribly.

I must look like a complete dumbass.

I cannot get out of this room fast enough.

“Thanks Marlee,” Harrison says with a nod and a wave. I respond with a silent nod as well but smile and then turn to leave the room as quickly as possible without giving Ledger Dayne another glance.

But I swear when I’m walking down the hall I hear Bodhi Roche say, “Keeping things tight behind the scenes, hey Dayne?”

Cringing, I murmur to myself as I’m walking away, “Note to self: Work on your choice of words.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LEDGER

The 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 sayYep. 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

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