Dominik and I hadn’t even taken seats, preferring to stand in the common area. We can see the action just as well since the rows dribble downward and don’t impose on the line of sight. Dominik always stands during the games, having too much nervous energy to stay still.
My breath catches as the puck gets knocked loose and one of the Demon players snags it, taking off toward our net. He has a good jump, too, and by the time our players start the chase, he’s a good five feet ahead.
“Oh, shit,” I yell, still clutching Dominik’s hand in a death grip. I feel him go utterly still as he watches what might be the end of his dreams, but I do the opposite, jumping up and down while I scream at the top of my lungs.
Kane Bellan, the guy we traded Rafe for, is the closest in pursuit. Legend is in the net, crouched with legs spread, waiting for the inevitable clean shot.
Kane can do one of two things. He can either drag the player down by potentially hooking his skate, which will end up being a penalty shot for the other team, or he can just try to put pressure on him to make him fuck up his shot. Not really good choices because, either way, they’re going to get a shot on goal.
By some miracle, or because Kane ate his Wheaties this morning, he gains enough ground on the guy that by the time he’s ready to wind up and take his shot on goal, Kane is able to get his stick within reach of the puck.
It’s enough as the Demon takes a quick wrist shot on Legend, but he whiffs on it, causing the puck to actually scuttle along the ice. Legend is able to butterfly, going to his knees to stop the biscuit and covering it quickly with his glove to stop the play.
Everyone in the box—and probably the rest of the arena—lets out a huge sigh of relief we’re still in it.
The red light comes on in the scorekeeper’s box, signaling a TV timeout, and the players skate off toward the bench to grab water and a breather. I manage to unlock my digits from Dominik’s.
He grins, giving his hand a bit of a shake. “If you and I ever get to a point in our relationship where you’re in labor… remind me not to hold your hand.”
I bust out laughing, noting my mom whip her head around from where she’s standing in front of us. Those parental ears are apparently trained to pick up any hint of information that might reveal how serious Dominik and I are about each other.
I find it adorable, but I resist the urge to tease her.
“Want something to drink?” Dominik asks, his hand going to my back.
“A shot of anything to calm my nerves,” I say, not really serious. But he must want the same because he heads over to the bar where a few other people are rushing in to grab drinks during the roughly two minutes we have before play starts again.
Pepper and Brooke join me, and I see Blue helping Billy drink some water. He suddenly looks exhausted.
“This is torture,” Pepper whines. I suspect she, more than any of us, had the most stress on that last play since it was her man facing off against the breakaway player.
“Legend’s playing an amazing game,” Brooke says as she loops her arm around Pepper’s shoulder. “He’ll carry us through. Now we just need to get one of the others to freaking score so we can go home and relax.”
I dip my head to see out to the scoreboard hovering over the ice. Only eleven seconds left to go in regulation play. If a goal is going to happen, it’s going to have to occur on the first few passes from this faceoff, which is an almost impossible feat.
My dad turns in his seat, clearly having been listening to us. He pulls his wallet out, then takes out a twenty-dollar bill. “I’ve got twenty that says we’ll score in regulation and put this series to rest.”
We all just blink at him in surprise, especially at the vehemence in his voice. And because no one wants to bet against such confidence—despite the overwhelming odds against his prediction—we all smile and politely decline.
My dad smirks as he returns the money to his wallet, but he leans over the back of his chair and confidently declares, “Mark my words. We’ll win in regulation.”
“God, I hope you’re right, Dad,” I say with a laugh.
“First time I’ve ever heard you say that to your old man,” he mutters with an eyeroll, and I snicker.
“Okay, babe,” Dominik says from behind me. He places his arm over my shoulder, dangling what looks like at least two fingers of bourbon in front of me.