Mirsky. The giant Russian defenseman whose entire job was to shut me down. He came at me, and I moved away from the boards.
Not today, asshole.
We made impact on my terms, my momentum meeting his with greater force and speed. Mirsky spun, slamming into the boards. I felt the pressure of the puck on my stick and almost smiled.
Damn, it was fun to be good.
I assessed the goalie’s stance in the span of two heartbeats and watched for the one tell this guy had as I skated close enough to make out the flame design on his helmet.
There.
He lunged, assuming I’d go stick-side as my setup indicated.
I hit him with a backhand instead, and the puck sailed through the small opening between his shoulder and the rail, hitting the net.
The noise of the crowd broke through my concentration as the lamp lit, and I turned, meeting Gage’s open arms in the process.
He tapped his meaty fist on my helmet.
“Fuck yes!” he shouted over the noise.
Joy ripped through me, clean and pure and I fist-bumped Noble, then Porter and Lindgren as I made my way back to the bench.
This moment was why I loved hockey. It wasn’t the money—sure that didn’t hurt—but it was the moment I went up against the best of the best and proved that a broke ass kid who had paid his PeeWee hockey dues by sweeping up the rink at night could best them.
One minute and seven seconds later, the buzzer sounded.
I was mid-dogpile when it hit me, nearly knocking me to my knees.
We were moving on to the next round in the Stanley Cup playoffs. We’d made it to the final eight.
My field of vision cleared as my teammates dispersed, and my head swung toward the family section, needing to see Hannah’s reaction.
I skated over quickly, and she hopped down the step that separated us, waving as she jumped up and down, the giant Bridgerton jersey nearly swallowing her whole. Her smile was big, bright, and so fucking contagious.
My cheeks hurt from grinning so wide, and I pointed to her, tapping my chest, stick in hand, with my other. She mimicked the motion, somehow amplifying the joy I was sure couldn’t possibly grow in my heart.
She threw a look over her shoulder, and Ivy appeared, wrapping her arms around Hannah just like I wanted to. She smiled over at me and mine slipped.
She floored me. She was heart-stoppingly beautiful, her hair woven into the same side-braid she’d done for Hannah. God, it wasn’t just her face, or that fuck-me-now body. It was the happiness she openly radiated as she squeezed Hannah, the way her eyes looked at me she saw me, not just another player—another Shark.
She didn’t even like me, but still showed up for Hannah even a month after Jess had split. Ivy showed up for me.
I didn’t even like her, but I wanted her. Shit, I needed her.
And I prided myself on not needing anyone.
The memory of her soft body cradled in my arms from when I caught her at the music festival rushed my mind in an instant. She’d been warm, fierce, and reckless enough to trigger every protective instinct I possessed.
Our gazes held, and her grin slid to a small, somehow more intimate smile. Like we shared something secret, something untouchable, and I guess in a way, we did.
I gave her the same motion I had Hannah, tapping my chest with my hand and then pointing to her. I was here because she’d stepped up. She’d shown up when I had practices, flown to our away games this week, and taken on Hannah as if she were her own.
Holy shit. I might have just scored the winning goal, but it was Ivy with the assist.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and nodded at Lukas. It was time to line up.
I gave my girls a nod and skated over to the rest of my team. Something itched in my chest as we went through the post-game line up, shaking hands with all of the Calgary players. I rolled my shoulders about halfway through the handshakes, wondering if my pads had slipped or something.
The lineup finished as I realized it wasn’t an external itch but an internal one.
We were almost to the locker room before I realized there wasn’t just one reason for the itch, but two.
The first was logical. I’d thought my girls, like I had any claim to Ivy, or even wanted one. I didn’t. I couldn’t afford a distraction or a mistake like Ivy, and it didn’t matter if I was literally aching to get inside her. My dick wasn’t running this show.
But if I didn’t want her, then why the hell did it bug me that she’d been wearing a Jackson jersey?
“So now you get to move on?” Hannah asked as I tucked her in, still wearing my jersey.
“Yep. We’re just waiting to hear who wins this weekend and we’ll know who we’re playing and what the schedule will be.” I brushed back a few of her curls and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Now get some sleep, Banana. That was a lot of excitement for one day. You sure you want to sleep in the jersey? It can’t feel comfortable.”
She shrugged. “It’s my ritual,” she said with all the solemnity a five-year old could offer.
My eyebrows rose an inch. “What would you know about rituals?”
“Ivy said that some players have supersituations. They don’t change socks, which is gross, or other weird things. She says it makes them feel like they have enough luck to win.”
“Superstitions,” I corrected her with a little laugh. Between Hannah and Lukas, I felt like a dictionary. “And yeah, I guess some players do. So now you have a ritual?”
Her nose scrunched. “Well, I didn’t until tonight.”
“And it has to do with my jersey?” I prodded, curious to know why she hadn’t worn the cute, tailored jersey Ivy had custom made for her.
She nodded. “Yep. I spilled my GoGurt on the jersey Ivy gave me,” she whispered, her lips pursing. “She wasn’t mad or anything, but I was. I told her we couldn’t leave for the game like that. It looked like Shanks on my jersey instead of Sharks because it was grape and really, really dark.”
I held in my laughter and gave her a serious nod. “I see.”
“So, I had yogurt all down me, and we were supposed to leave, and I couldn’t just show up wearing a mess, right? What would the other team kids think? And I know I’m not a team kid, but…” she sighed, and my heart cracked.
“Are they mean to you? The other kids?” I wasn’t above kicking kindergarten ass for Hannah.
“No,” she replied quickly. “They’re really nice. I just didn’t want to give them a reason to stop being nice.”
I swallowed past the growing lump in my throat. I remembered that feeling all too well, trying to be perfect so no one would notice that my clothes weren’t always clean, that my mom never showed up to school stuff. Being extra helpful at whatever foster home we’d been dropped at so that I wouldn’t have to pack my shit—or Jessica’s, and leave for a new one.
“You know I wouldn’t have cared, right? That I love you exactly as you are, even if you’re covered in GoGurt.” I gripped her little hand in mine, hoping she heard the truth of my words.
“I know, Uncle Connor,”
she nodded and cracked a yawn so big I didn’t know how her jaw didn’t dislocate. “That’s exactly what Ivy said, that you wouldn’t care. You just wanted me there.”
Thank you, Ivy.
“She’s absolutely right.”
“She also said I could wear her McPherson jersey, but I wanted yours.”
“And that is why you’re my favorite niece,” I told her, glancing over my shoulder when the noise in the living room got even louder. Lukas must have shown up, after all.
“I’m your only niece,” she reminded me with a smirk.
“Fine, then you’re my favorite kid on the entire planet,” I retorted.
“Even if I stole the jersey off the hanger in the study?” she asked, her mouth quirking to one side as she awaited my verdict.
Holy shit, she’d taken my first game jersey. The one I’d had framed for preservation.
I swallowed and blinked, keeping my smile plastered to my face.
“Even then,” I responded. “Besides, it looks better on you, anyway.”
Her grin was worth it. It stole into my chest and warmed me in that simple, pure way that only Hannah had.
Jerseys, even ones that marked monumental events, were just cloth. Material. Hannah’s smile? Priceless.
“So I can sleep in it?” she clarified.
“Yep. Sleep in it. Spill yogurt on it, whatever. It’s yours, Hannah-Banana.”
Her eyes lit up. “I’ll wear it to every game! It’s definitely ritual now.”
I bent and kissed her on her forehead one more time before standing beside her bed. “Sounds like a plan. Just two things,” I told her as I checked to make sure her window was locked and pulled the mini-blinds so the streetlights wouldn’t bother her.
“What?” she asked mid-yawn.
“First, you have to agree to let me wash it at least once a week.”
“Deal,” she agreed, snuggling deeper into her covers. “What else?” She closed her eyes.
“You have to remember that the jersey is only lucky because you’re the one wearing it.” She didn’t agree because she was already asleep. God, I wished I could do that, just decide the day was over and shut my body down.