Page 145 of Brace and Chase

He’ll get over it.

The ref blows the whistle and the players all get into position.

Seeing it from the sidelines for the first time, I see how fucking beautiful the play is. How perfectly timed Nik’s backward pass has to be, how Bates is in the right place at the right time, and so are all the baby forwards.

It works exactly like it did all those months ago.

The Denver players were all confused enough by the switch in players, but then Nik went ahead and confused them even more.

He really is a great fucking player, I think, and maybe that’s at the top of the list of things I love about him.

Like he’s not in the thick of chaos, he picks up the puckwith masterful precision and deposits it into the back of the net, easy as can be.

The horn sounds, the guys bury him in hugs, and the rest of us scream and shout and jump from the bench as well.

I line up with all of them when Nik moves to give each of us a passing high five, and when he gets to me, he sends me a cheeky kiss.

I just roll my eyes at him—something I’m going to be doing the rest of my life if I’m lucky.

The minute and a half left of the game is excruciating.

Laney calls out the third line, and then the fourth, and the whole time I’m shaking like a leaf, begging that they don’t let them score.

Bear’s on his game, though, and he stays focused until the very last second.

We celebrate like we just won the whole damn round and not just one game. But it does feel like we won something more.

Something that matters way more than hockey. Shocking, I know, but it’s how I feel.

“I just haveto say it one more time,” Silas tells us seriously as we come to the door of the press room. “You don’t have to do this.”

His eyes shift from Nik to me, and I turn to Nik, letting him decide. I’ll follow his lead on this.

“We are doing it,” he says, resolute, but lets out a noticeable enough burst of air that I squeeze his hand once, then let go when Silas goes to open the door for us.

Flashes go off as soon as we step in, and Nik and I make our way to the table at the podium and take our seats.

There’s a marked beat of silence, and then about fifty hands go up.

Silas does his thing, and chooses one.

“Santa, you’ve never been one to talk to the media. Can we assume you’re here tonight because of the picture that was made public of you two before the game?” The woman looks nice enough, and I want to balk at him getting the first question but I should’ve known better.

“Yes,” he says, leaning in just a little to be closer to the mic. His gravelly voice is hard, and when he doesn’t elaborate, the reporter hesitates.

“Do you want to make a statement?” her words are more careful this time, hesitant.

“No.”

I have to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing or even smirking. If these people only knew that I can’t ever seem to stop crazy, ridiculous shit from coming out of this man’s mouth, they’d put me in a psychiatric hospital and accuse me of hallucinating.

She sits down and the next reporter stands.

“Sweetheart,” he starts. “Can you tell us why the decision was made to change lines at the end of the third period?”

“Because we wanted to win,” I tell him simply

“Well, I have a stat here that shows that when you two are playing in the same line, you don’t let goals in, ever.”

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