Page 82 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

Fallon leans in close. “Lola fancies herself a hockey expert.”

“I heard that,” Lola says, pushing Fallon’s bicep playfully. “And for your information, I happen to have three best-selling books about hockey on the market right now.”

“Novels,” Fallon corrects, sighing. “Romancenovels.”

“I don’t like your tone,” Lola says, and Devon laughs, throwing his arm over her shoulder.

“I know you’re an expert, bunny,” he says.

“Gross,” Fallon says, rolling her eyes, but there’s the hint of a smile on her face.

Out on the rink, there’s a minute left in the second period. The crowd is going wild—it’s not feeling good for the Vipers. Ranger fans hang over the partitions, hooting and hollering, waving their hands.

The Rangers are drunk on the possibility of an easy win. Sam skates to the net. He does his usual routine—tapping the posts, adjusting his mask, settling into position. Then, almost as though he can feel my gaze on him, he looks up.

Our eyes meet, even from this far, and I can almost feel the expression on his face. He can’t believe I’m here. His shoulders straighten. His stance shifts subtly, his eyes never leaving mine. Slowly, as though afraid of what might happen next, he raises his hand up in a quiet, still wave.

I raise mine, too, setting my hand against the glass gently.

The puck drops, and he looks away, and everything had shifted. Right away, the Rangers center snags the puck and rockets intoa breakaway. Sam’s weakness. But I don’t worry for a single second.

Sam holds strong, his body language confident, and shuts down the shot easily. I watch Brett skate around the back of the neck, can hear the faint din of their voices carrying, muffled through the cheering and the other sounds on the ice.

Sam looks up at me again. The entire game shifts momentum, and the Rangers don’t know what hit them.

“There itis!” Devon shouts, jumping from his chair and lifting Lola up off her feet. “Yes!”

The Rangers keep pressing, but Sam stops everything. A glove save on the center. A split pad save on the left wing. Each stop more confident than the last.

“This is the goalie who won us sixty games this season,” Devon says, grinning.

The Vipers feed off his energy. Brett scores on a power play, then Morrison adds another. By the end of the second period, it’s six to two, Rangers up four.

“They're not out of this,” Lola says, squeezing my hand. “Not with him playing like this.”

The third period is a masterclass in goal tending. Sam moves like he’s reading the Rangers’ minds, anticipating every shot,controlling every rebound. The Rangers fans get quieter with each save, while the Vipers fans, ever loyal and still hanging on, get louder.

Brett scores again. Then the left wing. It’s six to four.

“Five minutes left,” Fallon announces unnecessarily. We’re all counting every second.

The left wing scores on a beautiful feed from Brett. The Vipers are only down by one, and my heart is thudding in my chest, adrenaline hot and thick in my veins.

With two minutes left, Grey pulls Sam for an extra attacker.

Brett wins the face-off clean. The puck goes back to the Viper’s left wing at the point. He fires through traffic—

The horn sounds. The game is tied, six to six. Our box erupts into cheers, families and fans melting into ecstatic shouting and crying.

“Holyshit,” Devon whispers, completely still as Lola jumps in his arms. “Theyactuallybrought it back.”

Overtime is all Vipers. Sam stones the Rangers on three separate chances, and then Brett finds his right winger on a two-on-one.

Game over.

Seven to six—Vipers.

The team mobs Brett, then flows toward Sam. Through the glass, I can see him beaming, can practically hear him laughing as Brett tackles him.

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