Page 111 of The Final Faceoff
John makes a strangled noise. Mathieu bursts out laughing.
And on the ice, Leif makes another save—his glove snapping shut with the kind of effortless dominance that should not make my thighs clench this hard.
Jesus, I’m so screwed.
Mathieu and John are on edge, leaning forward like they’re on the damn bench themselves. It’s easy to forget these men weren’t just Leif’s dads—they were athletes before him. Champions. Legends.
And they feel every second of this game as deeply as he does.
“Come on, baby,” I murmur under my breath, my heart hammering.
Leif knows I’m here. He always does. I don’t know how, but he’s always aware of me in the stands, even when he’s locked into a game, even when there’s no room for distractions.
Like last time, when he made a ridiculous glove save in overtime, then flashed a smirk at me through his mask as if he’d just done something as casual as tying his skates.
Or when he checked the jumbotron mid-period during warm-ups, searching the crowd, relaxing only when he found me.
Or—my personal favorite—when he got into a goalie fight after some asshole crashed into the crease, and later, when I asked if he lost his mind, he just grinned and said, “He got too close to my girls.”
Yeah. He’s ridiculous like that, and sweet. He loves his girls and is protective of them.
Down on the ice, the game surges forward. A bad turnover at the blue line sends the opposing center flying in on a breakaway—a straight shot, one-on-one with Leif.
The entire arena sucks in a breath.
I stop breathing altogether.
The forward dekes left, right, a blur of speed and intent—but Leif is already there, reading him before he even takes the shot.
And when he moves?
It’s poetry.
He drops low, kicks out his pad, sealing off the bottom corner with impossible precision—and just like that, the puck deflects away, swallowed up into his glove.
A flawless save.
The Garden erupts.
I exhale shakily, a mix of relief and absolute pride swelling inside me.
Next to me, Mathieu is already on his feet, grinning ear to ear. “That’s my boy.”
John nods in agreement, arms crossed, but his eyes shine with something deeper. “He makes it look easy.”
It’s not easy. I know that. I know how many hours Leif pours into this. The grueling schedule. The bruises. The sheer mental and physical warzone that is being a goalie in the NHL.
But he loves it. And I love him.
And watching him out there? Knowing he’s fighting for something bigger than just a win?
It does something to me.
I glance at the game clock—one minute left. Still tied.
Then, everything explodes.
A loose puck in the neutral zone turns into a mad scramble—sticks clashing, skates digging into the ice. The Vipers gain control, driving forward. The tension snaps as their winger fires a shot from the hash marks—a missile straight to the top corner.
