Page 92 of The Girlfriend Goal
He took a run at me two shifts later – a late hit that drew a penalty and sent me into the boards hard. My ribs protested,but I bounced up immediately, not giving him the satisfaction of seeing pain.
"Two minutes, interference!" The ref announced.
Our power play struck quickly, Matt redirecting my point shot for a 2-0 lead. The assists felt as good as a goal, especially watching Derek slam his stick against the boards from the penalty box.
Denver pushed hard in the third, cutting the lead to 2-1 with eight minutes left. The arena turned anxious, people holding their breath with every rush.
"Lock it down," coach yelled. "Smart plays, no chances."
With two minutes left, Denver pulled their goalie. Six attackers swarmed our zone, the puck pinballing dangerously. Derek wound up for a one-timer from the point – the kind of shot that could tie the game and crush our dreams.
I saw it developing in slow motion. The passing lane, Derek's positioning, the shooting angle. Without thinking, I dove, getting my body in front of the frozen rubber disk.
The puck caught me in the ribs – the same spot Derek had targeted earlier. Pain exploded through my torso, stealing my breath, but I heard the crowd roar. I'd kept the puck out.
"Twenty seconds," Matt yelled, helping me to the bench.
I could barely breathe, definitely couldn't take another shift, but it didn't matter. Our team locked it down, Jordan making one final save as the buzzer sounded.
We'd done it. National champions.
The celebration erupted on ice – gloves, sticks, and helmets flying as we piled on Jordan. Pain forgotten, I joinedthe mob, screaming myself hoarse. Matt found me in the pile, wrapping me in a bear hug that made my ribs scream.
"We fucking did it!"
"Champions, baby!"
The trophy presentation blurred past. Photos, interviews, champagne showers in the locker room. But I kept looking toward the tunnel, waiting.
She appeared as I exited another interview, still wearing my jersey, eyes bright with pride. Without thinking, I dropped my gear and moved toward her.
"Lance, your ribs—"
"Don't care." I pulled her against me, ignoring the protest from my body. "You wore my jersey."
"I did." Her hands framed my face. "You were incredible. That blocked shot—"
"I love you," I blurted out, the words escaping without permission. "I'm so fucking in love with you, Rachel. I know you need space and you're scared and Seattle's happening, but I can't keep pretending I don't—"
She kissed me, cutting off my rambling. Not a gentle kiss – a claiming, possessive kiss that made my injured ribs worth it.
"I love you too," she whispered against my lips. "I'm terrified and I don't know how to do this, but I love you."
I kissed her again, dimly aware of cameras clicking and teammates cheering. Let them watch. Let the whole world see that Rachel Martinez loved me back.
Chapter 35: Rachel
The kiss played on every sports highlight reel in the country.
"Hockey's Hottest Couple," ESPN titled it, complete with slow-motion replay of me launching myself at Lance after his confession. The jumbotron had captured every second – my hands in his hair, his arms lifting me off the ground, the way we looked at each other like the twenty thousand people around us had ceased to exist.
Jared had already saved seventeen different angles, creating what he called a "digital scrapbook of love conquering Rachel's commitment issues."
"I don't have commitment issues," I protested, but my voice lacked conviction.
We sat in Lance's apartment the morning after, surrounded by celebration debris and nursing mild hangovers. Matt and Jared occupied the opposite couch, practically melded into one person despite the available space.
"Sweetie, you literally ran away from this man's bed when he asked you to stay for cuddles." Jared's voice held gentle mockery. "That's textbook commitment phobia."
