Page 84 of On Ice

Fuck.

Torres stares at the ice, devastation written across his face. I know that feeling, the helplessness of watching the puck go in off your own body. “Shake it off,” I tell him, slapping his back. “Not your fault.”

He nods, but he’s still blaming himself. That’s obvious from his dark expression. Hopefully he’ll use that anger to get even instead of imploding with guilt.

It sucks that the Wolves drew first blood, but we answer five minutes later. Mills threads a perfect pass between two defenders, finding me open on the back door. The goal ties the game but does nothing to slow the pace. If anything, Minnesota pushes harder.

The third period starts with the score still knotted at one. Every shift feels critical, every puck battle potentially decisive. My lungs burn and my thighs ache from exertion. Torres redeems himself with a diving play to break up a three-on-one. Noah stands on his head, making saves that will definitely make highlight reels. We’re all giving it everything we have.

The game feels both like an eternity and like it’s almost over before it’s begun. With two minutes left, Coach calls a timeout. We’re still tied, still urgently needing these points. My legs muscles are scorched from the double-shift, but adrenaline drowns out the fatigue. There’s only the next face-off, the play we need to execute, the two points we can’t afford to lose. Everything narrows to this moment; the game, the playoff race, the next 120 seconds that could possibly define our season.

“Riley, Jackson, Mills up front.” Coach Baker hunches into our huddle, voice cutting through the arena noise, breath fogging in the cold air. “Torres and Johnson on the back end. Offensive zone draw, we need this clean.” He taps two fingers on the bench, eyes intense. “Strong-side overload. They’ll collapse when Torres cuts to the net. That’s when we find Mills on the back door.”

Unfortunately, I lose the face-off clean despite getting perfect positioning. Minnesota’s center wins it back to theirdefenseman, who immediately fires the puck down the ice. We regroup, but their forecheck pressures us into a turnover at our blue line.

The final minutes are agony. Minnesota throws everything at us, their desperation matching our own. With thirty seconds left, Lindholm breaks in alone. Noah challenges, forcing him wide, but the rebound sits dangerously in the crease. Three Minnesota players crash the net. I dive into the pile, fishing for the puck blindly. Sticks slash, bodies tangle, someone’s skate blade passes inches from my face. I feel the puck jam up against my glove, and I sweep it desperately toward the corner.

Torres recovers, spins, and sends a perfect stretch pass to Mills breaking free at center ice. The crowd holds its collective breath as he crosses the blue line with ten seconds left. I’m still picking myself up off the ice, watching as Mills dekes forehand-backhand. The goalie bites, dropping to his pads as Mills lifts the puck over his outstretched glove and into the top corner. The red light flashes. The buzzer sounds.

2-1. We’ve somehow stolen this game in the final seconds.

Our team grabs each other and hugs with almost hysterical excitement. Although we’re all wrecked, we can’t contain our joy. I’m so spent, I can barely lift my stick to salute our small contingent of traveling fans. But we won. Two critical points.

One step closer to the playoffs.

****

We fly home that night on the red eye, and by the time I reach Luca’s house, I’m dragging. Sammy must take pity on me because he insists on carrying my suitcase up to my room. I’m still not comfortable having security, but Sammy isn’t a bad guy.I mean, technically heisa bad guy, but he’s been nothing but polite and helpful since he started driving me everywhere.

I don’t even bother to unpack because I’m too tired. Instead, I strip down to my boxers and nothing else, and I crawl in the big, soft bed. With a groan, I close my eyes, breathing slowly in and out. I have to admit, this mattress is a million times nicer than my bed at home. It sounds cheesy, but it’s like sleeping on clouds.

When there’s a soft knock on the door that connects my room with Luca’s, every muscle in my body tenses. I lift my head, wondering if I imagined the sound. After all, it’s 2:00 a.m. and Luca hasn’t talked to me since before he left for Italy. Why would he bother with a visit at this hour?

But when I hear the sound again, I sit up on my elbow. “Come in?” I say gruffly, a question in my voice.

Luca steps into my room, wearing a dark blue satin robe and matching pajamas. My pulse immediately starts to race as he approaches me. He’s just as gorgeous as I remember, which I hate myself for noticing. But even if he frustrates the hell out of me, there’s no denying his dark good looks are the epitome of masculine perfection.

His gaze runs over my bare chest and shoulders, coming to rest on my face. “You’re home,” he says.

“Yes.” I frown. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Uninvited, he sits on the foot of my bed, looking perfectly at ease. “I saw you won your game against the Minnesota Wolves.”

I give a raspy laugh. “And you thought you’d come congratulate me at 2:00 a.m. in the morning? That probably could have waited.”

A muscle works in his cheek. “I wanted to give you time to think about something.”

I narrow my eyes. “What do I need to think about?”

What fresh hell is coming my way now?

He avoids my gaze, smoothing his hand over his satin-covered thigh. I’m beginning to realize that’s a little gesture he does when he’s stalling. When he finally lifts his eyes to mine, his expression is guarded. “As you know, we need to be seen in public as a couple. We should have already done that, but I had to fly to Italy.” He clears his throat. “I’d like you to accompany me to a wedding tomorrow.”

Surprised at the invitation, I blink at him. “A wedding?”

“Yes. My longtime associate Mario Spongilla’s daughter is getting married, and I need to make an appearance. Most of the bosses will be there, so it’s the perfect opportunity to be seen together.”

I’m fully aware our arrangement is all business, but his offhand delivery and timing gets under my skin. Who asks someone out on a date, even a fake one, in the middle of the night? Does he think I have nothing else to do but wait around for him to remember I exist? “So, you want to parade me around for your mafia friends like a show pony?”

---