Page 101 of Top Scorer
“No!” Toby and I declare at the same time.
“She came around eventually,” Orlando says, wrapping his arm over his wife’s shoulder and squeezing. They grin at each other.
“So, do you think she’ll ask you to move in after she sees how great the nursery looks?” Toby asks.
“Maybe. But I don’t want to pressure her.” I press my lips together. My mood is smothered, because Toby brought up the million-dollar question. What is it going to take for Ligaya to want me in her home? In her life?
Cathy clears her throat. “I will only ask this once, but I have to ask.”
“Uh-oh, here we go,” Toby says with relish.
“We talked about staying out of their business, Cathy.” Orlando looks stressed.
She pats his thigh and leans forward. “You can take one straightforward question, can’t you, Tristan?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Are you in love with Ligaya? Do you plan to get married one day? Or will the children grow up in two different homes while you co-parent?”
“That’s more than one question,” Toby mutters. Cathy gives him a raised brow before settling her gaze on my face.
I stare back and state, “Yes. Yes. And no.”
That’s all I give her.
For a beat, everyone is silent, and I wonder if I miscalculated how to handle this situation. Suddenly, Cathy claps her hands once and says, “Good.”
It’s a simple word, yet it’s loaded with the trust I’m determined to earn.
***
I’m getting a lot of ice time this week. The first round of the playoffs is one month away, and the Mavericks’ top line is tapering back so they’ll be fresh by mid-April. Coach Zach loves to remind us that “rest is a weapon.” Fine. If rest is their weapon, ice time is mine. More than ever, I want to prove myself to the Columbus players, the coaches, the fans. Hell, to myself, as well.
“The last time we played Toronto,” Coach Zach says during pregame review, “they outworked us at the boards. Those battles in the corners—you have to win them if you want a clean outlet pass. If you aren’t committed to playing the man, really holding him down instead of dancing around the fucking puck, Toronto will make you pay.”
The coaches ran the video feeds all week. Toronto isn’t the biggest team in the league, but they’re sneaky as hell. They’ve got that Patterson kid, the one who pops up like a horror movie jump scare. One second you’re cruising, the next he’s in your blind spotwith the puck. Keeping track of a speedster like that is the definition of thankless work.
While we’re in our pregame routines, Coach pulls me aside. “Hey, I’m moving you around tonight, depending on how things go. When it looks like a good matchup, you’ll play center. Need someone who can keep up with Patterson. Be ready for a quick line change.”
Translation: I’m the third defenseman on shift tonight. Coach doesn’t have to say it out loud. My job isn’t to dazzle anyone with a highlight-reel goal, it’s to make Patterson’s night miserable. That means anticipating every deke, pinning him to the boards, tangling sticks, blocking lanes, and cutting angles until he can’t breathe without me in his face. Forget chasing the puck, I’m glued to the man.
And honestly? Putting Toronto’s arena to sleep because their golden boy can’t take two clean strides? Sign me up.
Hitting the ice is like stepping into a walk-in freezer, except the freezer has twenty thousand fans pounding on the glass and the bass of the arena music rattling your teeth. Adrenaline fizzes through me like I downed six espressos.
The first period sets the tone for a high-intensity game. Bodies whizzing, sticks clattering, the roar of fans climbing and crashing with every rush. Despite the energy level, both teams aren’t quite landing their big plays. We trade shot attempts like punches that don’t properly connect. And then, with literal seconds left, Patterson sneaks between two defensemen and buries the puck. Cheap shot timing. The horn ends the period and signals Toronto stealing the momentum. Frustration settles in like bad ice, patchy and ready to trip us.
Second period, I get the tap to move from right wing to first line center. My assignment is simple. Shut Patterson down. Every face-off he takes, I’m across from him, glaring at him like I’m cockblocking him on prom night. I get physical, stay sticky ondefense, pesty on offense. I’m in his grill every second. Patterson barely touches the puck, and when he does, I’m there to rub him off the play.
The crowd boos, and it is music to my ears.
Third period, Gordon finds the net, and the place deflates in frustration. We’re tied. Suddenly, the ice feels alive, like it’s humming under my skates.
We push it into overtime, where the Mavericks’ superstars clinch a shoot-out sequence. I’m not the one who scored tonight. In fact, I may never be the top scorer I was in Denver before the injury.
Still, a win is a win. I did my part to get ours.
CHAPTER 41
