Page 67 of Mile High Coach

Harrison dips his head, pressing his lips against the crook of my neck and breathing out. I feel the slow, subtle creep of tears on the collar of my shirt, and I cling to him, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders.

We hold each other for several minutes, breathing, letting this moment cement itself in our shared history.

Then, Harrison pulls back, touches his fingers to my stomach, and meets my gaze, saying, “I already do.”

Epilogue

Harrison

The atmosphere outside the arena is electric. Fans are out there before most of the players arrive, crowding in the courtyard and watching the pre-game screen, cheering each time they see one of the replays from the other games of the series.

Music blares from the massive speakers outside, and several grills are running, cooking up camp coffee, eggs, and bacon for the early-rising fans. In fact, the entire city is thrumming with the excitement of this game. Even people who are not hockey fans are dialed into the day, knowing what it will mean for the city of Baltimore if we win tonight.

It’s been a tough series already with the San Jose Sharks—a team that nobody expected to make it this far, and who came barreling out of the Pacific Division, racking up a bunch of points in the second half of the season that got them the wild card in the Western Conference.

And now, here we are, going up against a team that’s never taken home the cup. It only makes them hungrier, makes themplay harder. We’ve seen a fight nearly every game this series, with our enforcers getting back to an old hockey mindset, physicality going through the roof.

“As long as you’re not the one fighting,” Lovie said, when I commented about it over dinner last night, musing about how old school the whole thing felt. “I don’t really care. You’ll have to be a good role model for our child, after all.”

I’d grinned at her, “I’ll be nothing but the best role model for our little one.”

After dinner, we went over strategy again, and she complained, again, about doing unpaid labor for the Blue Crabs. Then I submitted payment for that work by giving her a foot rub, which turned into a calf rub, which turned into me dragging her to the end of the bed and spreading her legs.

“I never thought I’d have more sex while I was pregnant,” she’d laughed, while I was cleaning her up with a warm washcloth.

“Think of it as a continuous scheduled increase,” I’d murmured, kissing the insides of her thighs. “By the time you’re fifty, we’ll have to have sex twice a day, every day.”

Lovie laughed, and when I gave in and buried my face between her legs, she tangled her hand in my hair, moaning my name and laying her other hand flat on her belly.

“Morning, coach,” Deacon says now, drawing me out of my thoughts with his greeting. He’s dressed in his finest coaching get-up, just like me, and he falls into step next to me, looking a little nervous. “Big day.”

“Morning,” I say, glancing at him, remembering that this is his first time coaching during the Stanley Cup finals. And this is his first final game.

Up to this point, the Sharks and Blue Crabs have been trading games back and forth. We took home the first win, the Sharks took the second. Then we won the third, the sharks thefourth. All the way to fifth and sixth games, which had us tied three and three for wins.

The first two games had us here in Baltimore, then the next two were in San Jose. We came home for the fifth game, and flew right back to California for the sixth.

Which puts us at home now, for the last game in the series.

No more chances to make it up. Tonight decides everything, which explains why the arena is practically shaking with nerves, why the Baltimore fans outside are already pregaming, wanting to be ready for the eventual celebration or disappointment.

The league, and the Blue Crabs admin, are eating it up. In terms of revenue, it’s the best possible scenario. Drawing out the finals, selling more and more tickets. I even saw an article yesterday that said seafood restaurants are running with the rivalry, selling seafood platters for the big game.

Apparently, a restaurant in San Jose is selling BaltimoreBlue CrabChowder as a promo, dyed blue and everything.

To Deacon, I say, “How is Telley’s wrist?”

“According to the trainer, it’s doing okay. We can expect him to start today.”

“Thank God—has that gotten out to the press yet?”

“Didn’t want to say anything until we ran it by you.”

“Thanks. Let’s wait a bit longer before letting them know.”

“Sounds good.”

“Morning, gentlemen,” Samir says, joining us as he comes in from his car, jingling his keys lightly at his hip. “You guys see the crowd out there? Going to be gnarly tonight in the city, win or lose.”

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