Page 91 of Hearts on Ice
Two minutes left.
They pulled their goalie. Empty net on their end, chaos on ours. I saw Tank take a stick to the ribs and stay standing. Jester dove, blocked a slapshot with his skate, limped up, still cleared the puck.
Clock bleeding down.
I tracked the puck off the glass, into the corner, back to the point—one more shot. It hit my chest, dropped between my knees. I covered it.
Horn.
0:00. Grizzlies 3. Knights 2.
We’d done it.
Series tied.
Alive again.
The bench exploded, sticks banging, gloves flying. Someone yelled my name, maybe two or three voices together. For a second, I let myself look at him.
Drew.
Across the ice, hands shoved in his pockets, face composed—but his eyes said everything.
The locker room was chaos: music thumping, steam rising off our gear, everyone riding that razor edge between exhaustion and euphoria.
Tank was half shouting, half laughing, “We’re not done!”
Jester threw an arm around Devin. “We’re coming for the finals, baby!”
Then Drew stepped in. The room went still like someone cut the power.
“That,” he said, “was what this team was built to do. You were down. You could’ve folded. Instead, you fought for every inch. That’s who we are. Not a stat, or a standing. We are fighters.”
His voice was calm, low, even. That quiet command that made you believe him.
God, he was good at this—at knowing when to light a fire and when to cool it down. I’d watched him stay composed through two bad calls, a crowd that booed. He never cracked. Never raised his voice. Just set his jaw, steadied his gaze, and we followed.
And maybe that’s why watching him now—still flushed from the win, hair damp, sleeves pushed up—did something to me I couldn’t let show.
He looked like control made flesh.
And it was the sexiest damn thing I’d ever seen.
He dropped his tone another notch. “We get one more. One more game, one more chance to prove this isn’t luck. It’s work. It’s belief.”
Then he broke into a grin. “Rest up. Hydrate. Eat something green for once.”
Laughter rolled through the room, breaking the tension just enough. But when he turned, our eyes met again.
A single heartbeat.
That was all.
But it landed deep—like pressure behind the ribs, a connection sparking through every inch of me.
I couldn’t touch him here, couldn’t even hold the look for more than a breath.
Didn’t matter.
