Page 91 of The Girlfriend Goal
All of the above, but admitting that would only fuel Matt's teasing.
Coach Stevens entered, his game face already in place. "Gentlemen, this is what we've worked for all season. Denver's good – damn good. They've got speed, they've got skill, and they've got that prima donna Derek who thinks he's God's gift to hockey."
A few guys snorted. Derek was talented but dirty, known for cheap shots when refs weren't looking.
"But you know what they don't have?" Coach continued. "They don't have our heart. Our brotherhood. The way we battle for each other every shift. Fletcher!"
I straightened. "Yeah, Coach?"
"Derek's been running his mouth to media about our 'overrated defense.' Says he's gonna light us up." Coach's grin turned predatory. "What do you say to that?"
"I say talk is cheap, and he's about to find out why they call meThe Wall."
The team erupted in cheers, banging sticks against the floor. The energy was infectious, adrenaline already coursing through my veins.
"That's what I want to hear. Play smart, play hard, and play for each other. Bring home that trophy."
We filed out for the anthem, the arena reaching deafening levels. I found our section immediately – hard to miss with Jared's handmade signs that somehow incorporated glitter, our numbers, and what appeared to be abstract art.
Then I saw Rachel. She stood between Jared and her teammates, wearing my jersey. Not the practice one Matt mentioned, but my actual game jersey with my name across the back. The one I'd left in her apartment after sex.
Our eyes met across the ice, and her shy smile hit me like a body check. She pointed to the jersey, then to me, mouthing something I couldn't make out over the crowd.
"Dude, you're literally glowing," Matt muttered beside me. "Try to keep it together until after we win."
The anthem played, but I barely heard it. Rachel was wearing my jersey at the biggest game of my career. The same woman who'd insisted we were just exploring physical chemistry, who needed space, who was leaving for Seattle in weeks.
The puck dropped, and Denver came out flying. Derek tried to dangle through our defense in the first thirty seconds, but I stood him up at the blue line, separating him from the puck with a clean hit that sent him sprawling.
"Welcome to the championship, buttercup," I chirped as he got up.
His response involved creative profanity and promises about what he'd do next shift. Empty threats from an overrated forward.
The first period stayed scoreless despite chances both ways. Denver's goalie made two spectacular saves, while our keeper Jordan stood on his head to rob Derek on a breakaway.I made sure to tap Jordan's pads after that save, grateful for his talent.
During the intermission, I couldn't help checking my phone again. A new text from Rachel:That hit on Derek was beautiful. He's been whining to the refs about it.
I typed back:Nice jersey. Looks good on you.
Three dots appeared immediately, then disappeared. Then appeared again. Finally:Thought you might like the support.
Right, definitely just supportive friendship, wearing my name across her back at the biggest game of the year.
"Earth to Lance!" Stevens barked. "You with us?"
"Yes, Coach. Sorry."
"Good. Because Derek's gonna come harder next period. He's embarrassed and angry – exactly where we want him. When he gets emotional, he gets sloppy. Be ready."
The second period proved Coach right. Derek tried forcing plays, getting increasingly frustrated when our defense held. With five minutes left in the period, Matt found me with a perfect pass in the slot. I one-timed it top shelf, the goal light illuminating as our bench exploded.
1-0 Greenfield.
Skating past their bench during the celebration, I made eye contact with Derek. His face was murderous, promising retribution.
"Lucky shot," he spat during the next faceoff.
"Luck's got nothing to do with it."
