Page 102 of Playoff

Because how the hell am I supposed to put her—and us—out of my mind when she’s five fucking feet away?

We go into the third period down by one.

It’s do-or-die, and I’m not sure I can make the magic happen.

Not tonight.

And I hate myself a little for it.

Because this is what I do.

I play my ass off, and then, when the chips are down—just like in senior year of college—I drop the ball.

I need to score, set up a play, do something…anything at all… to help win this game.

And it’s just not happening.

The time is winding down.

If we can’t get going, notch another goal, the season is over.

For me, that means a fuck-ton of uncertainty.

My next shift is better, but not enough to score, and I can’t help but watch the clock.

Less than five minutes to go.

Less than five minutes until my life changes in ways I can’t control.

This playoff game is all I have left and it’s about to slip through my fingers.

Just like the only woman I’ve ever loved.

Fuck.

I’m back on the ice, and I can’t seem to find my footing. Coach left me on the first line, and I feel like I’m not pulling my weight but I can’t seem to figure out where I’m supposed to be. Just like my life, everything on the ice is spinning out of control.

Until—

The puck lands on the blade of my stick and instinct takes over.

I truly can’t say there was skill or hard work involved—it was nothing but a reaction.

A flick of my wrist that sends the puck sailing.

Right between the goalie’s legs.

And it’s fucking tied.

I barely feel it as my teammates lift me off the ice, patting me on the back and bumping helmets with me.

My gaze travels to the bench and I see Rowan.

Watching.

Nodding.

Her eyes filled with…regret?

---