Page 81 of Dirty Puck

Lowest tier: free tickets to Saturday night’s game.

Middle tier: skate with the players on Sunday afternoon.

Highest tier: play in a game with your favorite players Sunday night.

The crowd roared when Bishop took the mic before the anthem.

“Every dollar raised,” he said, “will be matched by the Copperheads players.”

Peoplelost it.

And when the puck dropped, we brought it. The whole team played like we had something to prove. Fast, clean, relentless.

We won 4–2.

My saves were solid. Bishop had a goal, which for a center, was really sweet. He hardly ever got to score. His job was to get the puck to Bonner or Jones, his wings on the ice. But the real highlight?

That feeling—the one that settled deep in my gut, telling me I was doing exactly what I was supposed to do.

And when the locker room celebration died down, and the guys peeled off to find their families or the nearest bar, I didn’t even think twice.

I drove straight home.

Lights were low when I stepped inside. My mom’s door was closed—she’d already turned in for the night. I took the stairs two at a time, quiet as I could, and found our bedroom door cracked just enough for the hallway light to spill in.

Bree was stretched out on the bed, wearing one of my oversized tees—hers now, unofficially. Her hair was up in a messy knot, her face makeup-free and beautiful as hell. She looked up when I stepped in and gave me a soft smile.

“Hey,” she whispered. “You’re back.”

“Yeah,” I said, tugging off my hoodie. “Game went great. I’ll tell you all about it in the morning.”

She nodded toward the other side of the bed. “He’s out cold.”

Sure enough, Benny was curled up on the far side, nestledinto a small mountain of blankets with a stuffed dragon under one arm. His headphones rested on the nightstand, and I could see the faint outline of his costume peeking out from beneath his pajamas—he must’ve refused to take it off. It reminded me of when I was little, begging my mom to let me wear my “Superman cape” to bed, which had been nothing more than a bath towel safety-pinned to the back of my pajama shirt.

I showered quickly and threw on a pair of cotton shorts, then climbed into bed behind Bree, sliding my arm around her waist and pulling her close.

She melted into me with a sigh, her back warm against my chest.

“Thanks for today,” she murmured.

“Was one of my best,” I said quietly.

And I meant it.

I looked past her to the sleeping boy we both loved, listened to the even hum of the house, and let myself drift.

Because this—her in my arms, Benny within reach, all of us under one roof—felt more like home than anything ever had.

And I wasn’t letting go.

I’d find a reason to keep her with me.

CHAPTER

SIXTEEN

BREE

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