Page 106 of The Arrogant One
I could feel each tick of the fucking clock in my chest.
When Beck and his teammates were tired, they unintentionally let their guards down. Aside from letting their opponent score, it was when the most injuries happened. Beck still had a long season to go, and I wanted him healthy for it.
“I can barely watch,” Walker admitted as he stood beside me. “My nerves are shot for him.”
I nodded. “Same.” I took a quick glance behind me, and Eden was already gone. When my gaze returned to the clock, I voiced, “Thirty seconds.”
“You’ve got this, Beck,” Colson chanted.
Beck and both of his wings were positioned at the goal, sliding the puck between them, waiting for an opening, a way in, even if the angle was difficult. They just needed a small goddamn hole.
In the meantime, they had an audience full of people who could barely breathe, the ones in our suite included. And I could hear every reaction from the crowd—the quiet murmuring as we waited for the offense to make their move, the gasps each time the puck was passed. A sea of blue and white and silver—the Whales colors—all waiting to scream over the win.
“Fifteen seconds,” Macon called out.
“I need a drink,” Brady proclaimed as the clock stopped due to a penalty. “This is fucking stressful.”
As he headed toward the bar on the side of the suite, I said, “Make me one too.”
He returned a few seconds later and handed me tequila—not as a shot or even in a tall glass. This was the whole bottle.
“Drink up,” he ordered, holding a bottle of whiskey that he clinked against my tequila.
I was taking in a mouthful when the announcer came through the speakers, letting us know one of the defensemen had gotten a two-minute penalty for roughing. That meant they’d be short a man, giving us the advantage.
The crowd fucking roared.
“Now, let’s watch Beck score,” Brady said.
The clock started back up, our entire suite counting down, “Nine, eight, seven.”
I joined in, “Six, five, four, three, two?—”
Beck, still in the middle of his two wings, reared his arms back before his stick connected with the edge of the puck, sending it soaring. It went a few yards across the ice before it lifted into the air, hooking around to the right, like a fucking boomerang. The goalie was staying low, thinking the puck was going to drop, and he wanted every hole covered on the bottom of the net.
But the puck didn’t stay low.
It maintained its height due to the speed in which it was flying, plowing right through the top-right pocket of the net, the buzzer going off at the same time the goal lights illuminated.
Four to two.
Final score.
We’d won, and Beck had gotten himself that goddamn hat trick.
The crowd erupted, and so did everyone in our suite, screaming Beck’s name as the whole team celebrated on the ice.
“Jesus,” Cooper hollered, “now, that’s one way to end an evening.”
“That’s not an end to this evening,” I countered. “This is just the beginning, you guys.”
I grabbed Walker’s arm and shook it. And just as I released my brother, Brady clicked his bottle against mine again, and I joined him by guzzling another shot of tequila.
I winced as the hard liquor went down. “It’s nice to have you home, my man.”
Brady smiled. “It’s nice to be home.”
I gave the bottle to Colson so he could have some while the group got up from their seats and made their way toward the front of the suite.
