Page 62 of All Your Pucking Secrets

The stands are almost full, and even though I doubt Echo will show, I can’t help scanning each new arrival in case she does.

“Kinsey.”

I glance up just in time to stop a puck flying across the ice toward me from Anaheim. I glide toward the goal and fire it at Jackson, our goalie. He whacks it away with his gloved hand and Anaheim sweeps in, collecting the puck. He passes to me, I feign a shot at goal, then pass it back, and Anaheim flicks it past Jackson’s left foot and into the net.

Anaheim claps me on the back as he skates past, then gestures toward his helmet. “Head in the game.”

“Got it, Cap.” He’s right to call me on my distraction.

Anaheim summons the other first-line forward, Welch, and we run drills together, taking turns shooting at Jackson, until a whistle indicates that it’s time for us to wrap it up.

As we skate over to meet Coach Danvers, a ruddy-faced man in his fifties or sixties with thinning gray hair, a flash of movement near the entrance catches my attention. It’s Echo, wearing a shirt with the Newbury logo on the front. On the back, out of sight, is the number 21 and my last name.

I can’t see it, but I know it’s there, and my chest inflates with pride.

She came.

She’s here.

I don’t even care that she’s brought Ryan with her. She isn’t wearing a shirt with his name on it. He isn’t the one who promised her an orgasm later.

Matthews jostles me. “Dude, what are you staring at?” He follows my gaze and a grin spreads across his face, mirroring my own. “How did you manage that?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly.

Coach Danvers calls our names and I force myself to look away from Echo and focus on the game. It’s hard, though. This would have been a dream come true when I was in high school. I knew at the time there was no chance I could have Echo in the crowd, wearing my number, but I wanted it.

Badly.

Now, here she is.

She’s making a statement with her presence. I’m not quite sure what it is yet, but I’ll figure it out. The most important thing is, I know that this is monumental for her, and I won’t let her down ever again.

Coach gives his pep talk and sends us out. I’m starting, and I’ve never been more determined to win a game—not even the year we took the championship at my former college.

The air is thick with anticipation. We’ve shaken off the summer slowness over the course of our exhibition games and we’re beginning to be able to communicate wordlessly on the ice. There’s plenty of room for improvement, but we’ll win today. I can taste victory already.

The chill chaps my cheeks, but the rest of me is warm as the referee indicates for us to faceoff. I stare down my opponent, and the second the puck drops, I’m on it. Sticks clack, but I get it past their front line and flick the puck to Anaheim, who skates toward the goal, evades one of the defensemen, and passes back to me.

My eyes dart up to the stands, searching for Echo, but don’t linger long because I have to focus. I hit the puck toward the corner of the goal, but the goalie stops it with his stick. Welch is there almost immediately, and a moment later, the puck crosses the goal line.

One up, less than two minutes in.

I congratulate Welch and we skate back to our end. This time, I allow myself more time to scan the stands, and eventually I spot Echo, standing near the front on my left. Her hair is tied back and tucked under a cute, knitted hat. She’s wearing matching mittens, and she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.

I return my focus to the game, and seconds later, we roar into action. I earn another assist—this time with Anaheim—and I score twice. Both times, I meet Echo’s eyes, hoping she can read the silent message that they’re all for her.

Late in the third period, I’m racing up the ice, the puck on my stick, when the other team’s left defenseman barrels into me out of nowhere. I go down hard, the impact jarring my bones. The puck is snatched away and my hip throbs as I get to my feet. That’s going to bruise.

I rip off my gloves and helmet and square off against the defenseman. He does the same. He’s a big, stocky guy, with the beginnings of a beard and a smirk that says he’s loving every second of this.

I throw the first punch, bloodying his lip. He strikes back, but his blow glances off the side of my face as I dodge. Little does he know, I have more experience escaping hits than he can possibly imagine. I ready my fists to go again, but then others swarm us, and I’m pulled away.

The referee calls a penalty against Benton, I don my gloves and helmet, and we’re off again. Unfortunately, Benton turns the play around quickly and scores over Jackson.

I grit my teeth. Despite my aching hip and a faint throbbing in the back of my skull, I’m determined to get a hat trick. I can’t let Echo’s last impression of me be as the guy who took a face dive.

Together, Anaheim and I work the puck up the ice, drawing the defenders to us before Anaheim sends it back to Welch. His first attempt on net ricochets off, but I catch it on the rebound and send the puck past the goalie’s ear.

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