Page 206 of Stick It
I scored the game-winning goal!
I’m at the bottom of the dogpile, my face pressed into Griffin’s chest, and I can’t stop laughing. It bubbles out of me, wild and breathless and euphoric. My lungs burn and my eyes sting and my heart—God, my heart feels so full it might burst.
This is it.
This is what I’ve worked for. Fought for. Bled for.
Acceptance.
Belonging.
Family.
The guys peel back one by one, their faces flushed, beaming, breathless.
“That’s my girl,” Griffin growls in my ear, his hand a brand on the back ofmy neck.
“You’re a fucking goddess,” Finn yells, his face split in two with a wide, mischievous grin that has me wanting to kiss him.
Nipping at my earlobe, Jax rasps so low only I hear, “I’m gonna show you exactly what scoring that goal did to me later.” His promise sends delicious shivers racing down my spine, and I shift my gaze to Ethan next.
He ducks down so we’re at eye-level. “Hell of a finish, Thorn.” His thumb presses against my lips, tugging the lower one down. “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
With heat in my cheeks and love in my heart, I turn, my gaze drawn upward to the rafters, to the jersey hanging high above us.
#19—Callahan.
My father’s name. His number. His jersey.
My chest aches in the best kind of way. The kind that cracks something open inside you and lets the light in. I imagine him up there, watching. Smiling. Proud.
Warmth spreads through my limbs, and for a moment, I sense him there, watching. I can practically feel the pride in his eyes.
Movement from the stands catches my eye and I turn my head, mouth dropping open. There in the front row, are an entire line of men in ball caps, their hats pulled low and jackets nondescript. But even without the Timberwolves logos, I’d recognize them anywhere. A smile curls my lips as I identify Vince, Isaac, and Logan amongst the rest of the Timberwolves players. My dad’s former teammates.
Skating over, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and awe, I shout, “What are you doing here?”
Vince grins, that familiar crooked smile stretching across his face. “Your boyfriend sent us the schedule. Said we had an open invite.” He shrugs, still grinning. “We had a week off, andnone of us could think of a better way to spend it than cheering on the girl who’s always cheered us on.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes before I can stop them. I shake my head, lips parted, but before I can say a single word someone grabs me from behind and suddenly I’m being dragged into the celebratory chaos, my helmet knocked askew as players jostle me from every side.
I’m still grinning as we make it back to the locker room, the air thick with sweat and victory. We change quickly, laughter echoing off the walls. Someone throws a towel at Jax, another guy pretends to interview Finn with a shampoo bottle.
We move the celebrations to The Stanley, where we’re met with rowdy fans as soon as we step into the bar. We’re instantly swarmed, people clapping us on the back. People cheer my name as I push past them. Gone are the looks of contempt and skepticism, the whispers about agirlon the men’s team. Now, there’s only praise. Celebration.
As if sensing the shift in my emotions, Ethan’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, squeezing the muscle there. I glance back at him over my shoulder and smile.
Wren is behind the bar, expertly pouring beers and shaking cocktails like a queen. When she sees me, she abandons her post without hesitation, pushing through the crowd to throw her arms around me.
“You legend!” she squeals. “You freaking legend!”
I hug her back tightly, breath catching in my throat.
“First round of drinks is on me,” she says, pulling back with a grin. “Well. On the house, but you get the idea.”
We make our way to our usual booth in the back, and unlike all those early visits where I felt like an outsider tagging along, this time, I’m at the heart of it. The guys surround me. The rest of the team fanning out to claim the tables around ours. There are backslaps and drinks clink and someone retelling the finalplay like we didn’t all literally live it. I laugh along, cheeks aching, heart light.
At some point, Wren squeezes her way in beside me at the booth, shouting in my ear that she’s got a fifteen-minute break. She smells of citrus and vodka, and I lean into her shoulder with a contented sigh.
