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I found the section and made my way down the narrow steps, heart thudding. He was already there. Colton’s dad stood as I approached.

He reached out to shake my hand. "It’s nice to meet the best unofficial NHL coach Colton’s ever had."

I blinked, caught off guard. Then laughed—awkward, automatic. "It’s nice to meet you, too."

"Thanks for the ticket," I murmured, sliding into the seat.

I tugged at the hem of my sweatshirt. The fabric still had that new, just-out-of-the-box stiffness. The Timberline Shelter logo curved across the chest in crisp green, and right in the center sat a cartoon version of Duke—Colton’s favorite from the rescue—wearing a miniature version of his new team’s jersey.

The design had been Colton’s idea. Well, minus his uniform. A fundraiser. Limited edition. Proceeds to the shelter. I’d printed a few samples, mainly as a test. But it was the only thing that felt right when I was packing.

Colton’s dad cleared his throat. “Good turnout tonight.”

“Yeah,” I said, then leaned in slightly. “How do you deal with the nerves? I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

He let out a quiet chuckle. “If I had a cure for that, I’d bottle it and buy myself a team.”

A voice crackled over the PA system “Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the singing of our national anthem.”

We stood.

The crowd roared to life as the anthem ended.

The puck dropped.

***

Third period. Game tied. I glanced up at the scoreboard—fourteen seconds left. Every person in the arena was holding their breath—including me.

Colton caught the puck near center ice and exploded down the middle. The crowd surged to its feet. My breath hitched as he maneuvered past one defender, then another. Clean breakaway. Just him and the goalie.

I grabbed Colton’s dad’s forearm before I even realized I was moving.

He didn’t flinch. Just muttered, “Come on, kid.”

Colton faked left. The goalie bit. And then—

The puck hit the back of the net.

The horn blared. The arena erupted.

I jumped up, adrenaline taking over, and threw my arms around Colton’s dad. A full hug. I regretted it the second it happened.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, stepping back like I’d touched a hot stove.

He straightened his jacket. “You’re fine.”

On the ice, Colton’s teammates piled on him, shouting, slamming gloves against his helmet. The whole bench emptied, jerseys blurring in motion. After a minute, the players lined up and raised their sticks to the crowd in their signature salute.

Colton’s eyes scanned the stands.

I tugged lightly at the hem of my sweatshirt.

His gaze stopped.

And then he beamed.

Chapter twenty-four