Page 95 of Power Play

“Miller,” Coach continues. “Where the hell is your aggression tonight? It’s like your mind is somewhere else, and that’s not you.”

“Sorry, Coach.” Maverick dries his face off with a towel. “I’m distracted.”

“You better have a good reason. That wrist shot on our last possession was weak.”

“Agreed. Emmy is in the crowd tonight, and I always play a little sloppy when she’s around. Can’t stop looking at her.” He gives us all a sheepish grin. “We also decided to say fuck it and elope tonight, and I really don’t want to have a bloody nose for the pictures. She’d kill me.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Grant jumps to his feet. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Maverick reaches into his skate and pulls out a small bag with two rings inside. “Been carrying these around all game. Wanted to keep her next to me before I put this on her finger later.”

The guys all go wild. Someone squirts a water bottle in Maverick’s face and another jumps on his back. The timeout goes from play making to celebrating real quick, but not one of my teammates seems to care.

“Christ.” Coach rolls his eyes, but he grins and pulls Maverick into a hug. “You’re a sneaky fucker.”

“I’m here for the next ten minutes, Coach. I promise. Let’s get the win so I can marry my girl.”

I yank off my glove so I can shake his hand. “Congratulations, man.”

“Thanks, dude. You’re coming, by the way. I don’t want to hear any bullshit about being tired or wanting to spend the rest of the night in your room. You’re my friend, and I want you there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “And I won’t even complain.”

“Fucking right you won’t.” Maverick grins and kisses my cheek. “Now go get that fucking record.”

The Lightning’s offense has been more aggressive coming out of the timeout. Like they know it’s sink or swim and they’re struggling to stay alive. They start firing off shots like madmen, each one a little sloppier than the last. Fatigue is setting in for all of us—I see it in our boys too—and I know if I can hang on a little longer, if I can stay focused for a few more minutes, I have this one in the bag.

I take advantage of the stoppage in play to grab a drink of water. I stretch my back and see Piper behind me. She’s right against the glass in her usual spot, a notebook in her hand and scribbling furiously. After a few seconds of staring, she looks up and spots me.

She waves and gives me a thumbs up. I nod her way, not wanting to fall too far down the rabbit hole that can happen when I look at her for too long.

Especially when she’s in her element.

Piper comes alive at the rink, all fierce determination and excitement about the game. I can tell she genuinely loves her job, exuding a confidence she’s still trying to find in other parts of her life when she has a microphone in her hand.

The whistle blows, and I’m pulled back to reality. I shove the thoughts of her naked body spread out on my sheets from my mind. I forget the smell of her perfume and the bite of her nails digging into my skin and focus on the job ahead of me.

Now that this record is close—I’m only four goals away—Ireallyfucking want it.

I’ve clawed my way to being one of the best goalies in the league after getting drafted in the sixth round eight years ago. I’ve worked hard, stayed in my lane, and never been boastful about my achievements as a player.

But being able to sayI’mthe one in the history books would be fucking cool.

The next five minutes pass in a blur. My muscles ache. Sweat stings my eyes, but I don’t dare move my attention away from the puck for a single second.

I stop a backhand shot. A slap shot that almost sneaks under my left knee. A gnarly wrist shot that has me squeezing my legs together in a butterfly potion, and my whole body tumbling forward, snatching the puck out of the crease before any of the Lightning players can go in for a second chance at a goal.

The announcer tells the crowd there’s one minute left, and I start to mumble the alphabet to myself, just like I always do, saying the letters and counting each tick of time as we get closer and closer to the end of regulation.

When I catch another save—lucky number seventy-one—just as the horn sounds, I drop my stick and collapse on the ice. It’s cool on my overheated skin, and before I can breathe, my teammates are piling on top of me.

“Let’s fucking GO,” Riley yells.

“Hell of a game, Sully,” Hudson says from somewhere close to my ear.

“Think Richardson just broke my ribs.” I laugh, feeling really fucking proud.

“Best goalie in the league.” Maverick shoves my shoulder and rolls away from me. “Wouldn’t want anyone else protecting our team.”

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