Page 121 of Playing for the Hat Trick
It hits harder than the goal. Harder than anything, I’ve fought my way back from.
She might be mine, just like I’m hers.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet. Her presence, the fact that she came to surprise me . . .that hits harder than any goal.
I don’t even feel the rest of the game.
I don’t hear the final buzzer.
All I know is that when the final horn sounds, when we skate off victorious while the hats are still being shoveled off the ice—my chest is full of something bigger than adrenaline.
Bigger than the game.
Hope.
Home.
Her.
And I’m never letting her go.
Chapter Forty-Four
Jason
How to Fall Apart Beautifully After a Game
The hallway outside the locker room hums with a restless, charged quiet.
My tie hangs half-tied around my neck, drooping like it gave up halfway through the job. Damp curls rebel around my forehead, sticking out in every direction no matter how many times I shoved them back. My shoulders ache, my legs drag, andmy face still feels tight from fake smiles plastered for reporters and endless backslaps like I just walked on water.
None of that matters.
It doesn’t even come close to touching the pounding against my ribs.
I saw her.
I played for myself tonight, but also for her.
I hike my duffle strap higher, forcing one foot in front of the other. Each step bounces off the concrete walls, too loud in the emptiness. Trainers, equipment guys, the PR rep flashing me a thumbs-up—they all blur past without sinking in.
Then I see her.
Leaning against the far wall, arms crossed like she’s carved from something more extraordinary than marble.
One booted foot propped against the concrete, hip cocked, head tilted.
The easiest thing in the world, like waiting for me, has never been a chore.
That slow, knowing half-smile curves her mouth. It hits low, deep, threading through me with a force that leaves my hands curling around the strap of my bag a little too tight.
The sight of her hits low and violent, wrapping around something vital inside me. She looks unfairly good—relaxed, gorgeous, as if standing there was effortless and inevitable.
For a beat, I stand there like an idiot, forgetting how to breathe. She holds my gaze like she already sees exactly how this night ends, and she’s just waiting for me to catch up. A trainer brushes past my shoulder, jolting me back into motion. Outwardly, I’m everything the PR team could want—suit straight, tie decent, hair only a little unruly. Nothing cracks onthe surface. Inside, every nerve strains pulled tight and vibrating under my skin.
If I had an ounce of dignity left, I’d play it cool. Maybe lean against the wall, toss out something clever, and make her wait just a little longer. Pretend I have even an ounce of restraint left in me. Instead, I move toward her without hesitation, like she’s the gravity I’ve been circling all damn night, and I’m finally crashing where I was always meant to land.
Every part of me reaches for her without permission, without thought, without anything resembling common sense. If she smiled like that again, I’d forget my own fucking name—and honestly, I wouldn’t even be mad about it.
