Page 94 of Pucking My Grumpy Roommate
"It's holding. Trust the science," I said, surprising myself with the phrase Kate always used.
When I returned to the ice with ninety seconds remaining, Chicago's fans greeted me with boos and obscene gestures. Number 27 smirked, clearly thinking he'd rattled me. He didn’t know I had something—someone—worth fighting for now.
The final play unfolded like destiny. Erikson won the faceoff cleanly, sending the puck back to me at the point. I faked a slap shot, drawing the defender forward, then slid left intoopen ice. The seconds stretched like taffy as I saw the perfect passing lane to Dennis, who one-timed it toward the net. The puck deflected off a skate, hanging in mid-air for an impossible moment.
I was already moving, crashing the net with everything I had. My stick connected with the puck milliseconds before the goalie could react. The red light flashed as the arena went suddenly, blissfully silent.
Game-winner. With 7.8 seconds left.
My teammates mobbed me, an avalanche of shouting, sweaty joy. Dennis screamed something incomprehensible in my ear. Coach pumped his fist on the bench. But all I could think was:Kate's going to lose her mind.
In the post-game media scrum, microphones thrust into my face like invasive medical instruments, I found myself more patient than usual.
"Austin, talk about that winning goal," someone shouted. "How does it feel to be the playoff hero after your injury struggles?"
I smiled, thinking of Kate's meticulous explanation of muscle recovery pathways. "I've had some excellent guidance. You know that saying about standing on the shoulders of giants? I'm playing on the shoulders of brilliant science."
"Care to elaborate?" another reporter pressed.
"Let's just say I credit my comeback to the brilliant scientist who reorganized my recovery like she reorganized my life." The words flowed naturally, without the careful filtering I typically employed with media. "Sometimes the missing piece isn't more ice time or different training. Sometimes it's a completely new perspective."
Dennis caught my eye across the room, mouthing what looked suspiciously like "whipped" with a shit-eating grin.
I flipped him off discreetly, still smiling for the cameras.
By the time I made it home, the adrenaline had faded, leaving a bone-deep exhaustion alongside the low throb in my knee. But as I unlocked the door, fatigue gave way to anticipation.
Kate stood in the living room, surrounded by what appeared to be a science-themed hockey celebration. A banner read "HYPOTHESIS: AUSTIN KICKS ASS (CONFIRMED)" in her messy handwriting. The coffee table held champagne, post-game protein snacks meticulously arranged, and what looked like homemade cookies shaped vaguely like hockey sticks.
"You scored the fucking game-winner!" she shrieked, launching herself at me with surprising force for someone her size. "I screamed so loud Dr. Barnes texted to ask if I was conducting unauthorized experiments again!"
I caught her easily, spinning her once despite my protesting knee. "Did you watch in the lab?"
"We projected it on the wall of the conference room." She kissed me hard, then pulled back with narrowed eyes. "That hit looked bad. How's the knee really feeling?"
"Functional. Probably just soft tissue inflammation," I replied, using her terminology.
Kate's smile was blinding. "Listen to you with the medical jargon! I've created a monster."
"Speaking of creating things together," I began, setting her down carefully. "I need to tell you something."
Kate's eyes widened, a mix of curiosity and concern flashing across her face. "Why do you have that look? Did you tear something? Is your knee worse than you're admitting?Because I swear to god, Austin, if you're hiding a medical issue?—"
"MedEdge Sports Medicine wants us," I interrupted, unable to hold it in any longer. "Both of us. Together. For their new recovery science campaign."
She froze, champagne flute halfway to her lips. "I'm sorry, what?"
"Tom called before the game. They saw our viral post—you in the lab coat, me in hockey gear. They want to launch a whole recovery science line with us as the faces." I guided her to the couch as her legs seemed to wobble. "Equal billing. You as the scientist, me as the athlete. Research funding included."
"Research... funding?" Kate's voice had gone high and thin. "Like, actual, no-strings funding for my work?"
"Six figures worth, according to Tom. Plus appearance fees." I sat beside her, taking her hands in mine. "They specifically want your expertise, Kate. Your actual science, not just your pretty face next to mine."
Her mouth opened and closed several times without producing sound, like a particularly attractive fish out of water. Finally, she whispered, "Holy fucking shit."
I laughed, relief washing through me. "That's a good reaction, right?"
"I don't know yet," she admitted, standing to pace in that frantic way that meant her brilliant brain was processing at warp speed. "This is... unprecedented. Scientists don't get sponsorship deals with their hockey player boyfriends. My colleagues will either be insanely jealous or think I've sold out completely."
