Page 105 of The One Night Dash
Bass Giulietti grins like he’s been waiting all night for this. His jersey flashes“DANIELS,” and then he lifts it, exposing a Lincoln University women’s ice hockey tee-shirt and gives his Coach D two thumbs up in V’s, yelling, “Go lady lions!” His wife was the number one women’s hockey player the year they graduated. Even Coach D can’t hold back a grin.
Not to be outdone, Rivera raises his and …
“What the hell is he wearing?” Sofie laughs.
“That would be my leotard from my Lincoln gymnastics days,” she says calmly, then yells, “You better not have cut the crotch out of that!”
Laughing as he slows to kiss Nalani, Koa’s up next, shrugging off his jacket like it’s nothing, “KANE” arcs across his back, and Nalani actually covers her face with both hands before laughing through the tears. “I take it back. KOK will always be my favorite!”
By now, the Icehouse is in full eruption mode—stomping, clapping, whistling. The whole place is buzzing with a rhythm I can feel in my chest.
The rest of the guys filter in, and Deacon Moretti is the last.
When they’re all in their usual section, the place goes silent like a curtain dropped. It’s tradition—every home game, every goal scorer stands and makes a toast before the night kicks off.
Three goals tonight. One Smith. One Stone. And one my man, Dash Sterling.
Dash gets shoved up first, because of course he does. He lifts his pint, eyes glinting as they find mine across the room. “To women who make our sticks magic,” he says, grin spreading slowly.
The place erupts—howls, whistles, even a boo from … my mom.
Dash scans the crowd and sees her. “I’m so sorry, Maryanne. I didn’t even see you all came. Thanks?”
The guys laugh harder. My face burns, but I can’t stop smiling.
Evan Smith stands next, adjusting his tie like he’s about to give a wedding toast. “To the Vancouver Vortex,” he says then smirks, “may they always suck … just not as hard.” He stops and looks at my mom. “Sorry, Maryanne.” He winks at his wife and points to her. “As you.”
The room goes feral, beer spraying out of someone’s nose two tables over.
Mom covers her face and starts laughing.
Leo Stone rises, ever the straight man, until the smirk cracks through. He says, low and deadly, “May every goal leave a mark they don’t forget.”
The bar roars like he scored again right there. They love their captain.
He nods to Deacon. “Your first line now, brother; let’s hear what you have to say.”
Bass hands him a pint.
The guys pound the tables, chanting his name until he’s standing, glass in hand.
“To goals,” he says, steady enough. “On the ice”—his eyes shift, finding Claudia—“and off.”
Oh. My. God.
The noise dips, everyone waiting for the punchline. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, he shrugs off his jacket, and the bar gasps as one. Across his back, stitched boldly is, HOLLOWAY.”
She shakes her head, smiling, playing the role, but when her eyes fill with tears, I know this is so much more to her.
Moretti steps forward, sets his glass aside, and drops to one knee right in front of her.
“Claudia Holloway,” he says, voice thick but sure, “I missed my chance once. I let fear make me a coward. But that mistake gave us Savannah—our miracle, our proof. She deserves to grow up knowing her mom is a queen, and I’ll spend every day like I have since the first time I held her, making sure she knows that she’s a princess.”
The roar that follows shakes the walls, stomping, clapping, shouts ofyes, drowning out everything else.
Claudia’s crying, laughing, and nodding. “Yes!”
