Page 97 of Breakaway Daddies

I scream so loud it scratches my throat raw. I throw both arms in the air, sign forgotten, glitter be damned.

On the ice, the boys explode, helmets flying, gloves flung, Rowan tearing out of the crease and slamming into them in a tangle of pads and limbs and joy.

It’s chaos. It’s gorgeous.

It’s earned.

They huddle, screaming, laughing, maybe crying. And I cry too, but I’m still smiling. Because this is what I came back for. Not just a game. Not just a win.

Them.

I race down the concrete hallway like I’m late for a concert, dodging beer carts and staff and one toddler in a tutu, until I get to the locker room door.

The sounds of victory spill out. Shouting, stomping, someone blasting “We Are the Champions” like it’s a religious hymn.

My heart’s pounding. But not from nerves this time.

I lean in and knock once on the metal door, then push it open just a crack and stick my head in.

“Hey,” I call, voice a little breathless. “Can I come in?”

There’s a half-second of silence, and then total chaos.

“Jinx!” someone yells, and the whole damn team erupts.

Cheers, howls, hollers, the thud of someone smacking the bench like it owes them money. A helmet flies past the doorway. I duck instinctively, laughing as the roar crescendos into something unhinged and beautiful.

“Get your butt in here, you legend!” Reggie MacDonald is the first to reach me, all red hair and swagger, yanking me into a bear hug that smells like sweat, beer, and pure joy. “You picked the best bloody men on earth. You’re smarter than you look.”

“Thanks, I think,” I wheeze, still half laughing as I stumble inside.

“Damn right,” Ambrose Ward calls from across the room, towel around his neck, grinning like a man who just ran a marathon and won a war. “I’ve seen plenty of grand gestures, but that? That was championship-level commitment.”

“And fashion,” Braden Gallagher says, lounging dramatically against the bench with his gear half off and a streak of eye black smudged under one freckled cheek. “The lettering on that sign was… avant-garde.”

I snort. “You try painting letters with a lizard on your brush.”

“Respect,” Beck Robinson growls, pounding a fist to his chest.

Adan throws me a Gatorade like it’s champagne. “To the girl who brought the drama and the heart. We owe you big.”

I grin, flushed and glowing and completely overwhelmed, but in the best way. Jack is there, my brother, who rolls his eyes and tries to act unimpressed. “God, could you be more you?”

“You love it,” I shoot back.

“Yeah,” he mutters, pulling me into a hug.

A few of the other guys wolf whistle.

“Oh my god,” I groan. “I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Erik Novak says with a wink.

Tyler and Nick Porter walk by in tandem, clapping me on the shoulders like bouncers at a nightclub. “We knew you were cool,” Tyler says.

“But this?” Nick finishes. “This was epic.”

Even Brooks Bailey, the elder statesman of the locker room, gives me a nod like I’ve passed some sort of sacred test. “Good call, kid. You picked men who would crawl across broken glass for you. That’s rare.”

---