Eventually, Felix appears, his hair still damp from the shower. He offers me a protein shake without a word—plain chocolate, my usual choice—and I take it, nodding my thanks.
For a second, I almost tell him everything. But then Coach MacBride walks in, reminding us that the pre-game meeting starts in fifteen.
I swing off the bike, towel off the sweat, and knock back the shake in four gulps.
Time to suit up. Time to shut down all my thoughts. There’s a game to win.
The Woodpeckers come hard and fast. No surprise there. Åkerman’s former team known as The Wood has a reputation for aggressive gameplay and relentless pressure from puck drop to final horn. But tonight, our new lineup is clicking into place, making us stronger.
Less than a minute left in the third, we’re leading by one goal. The air is electric with tension, the crowd on edge. Every second counts.
I fly down the right side, looking across the ice at my teammate and faking a pass. The defenseman in front of me bites, crossing over to the middle, anticipating something different than I have in mind.
Picking up speed, I skate toward the goal, the puck on the blade of my stick. My heart hammers in my chest as I push harder, adrenaline roaring in my veins. Their defenseman recovers, crossing back over towards me, but it’s too late. I’ve already spotted my window.
I pass the puck to Åkerman who catches it clean and takes his shot. The other Woodpeckers’ defenseman manages to block it with his stick. The movement sends the puck ricocheting toward me.
Instinct takes over me. I catch it off the bounce and snap off a wrist shot that sails clean over the goalie’s shoulder. He stretches, but the puck’s already inside of the net.Hell yes!
The red light behind the goal illuminates the air around it, and I throw a fist in the air as celebration. My linemates come to congratulate me and together we skate to the bench.
“Peacocks goal scored by number nineteen, Rasmus Westerholm, with fifteen seconds remaining in the third period,” booms around the arena and our fans cheer loudly.
I drop down, grabbing a bottle, spraying water to my mouth. Glancing up at the jumbotron, I wait to see a replay of the goal. Instead, I see her.
Haisley.
She’s on her feet in the Owner’s Suite, arms thrown in the air, celebratingmygoal. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, eyes bright, mouth moving as she hugs Vivian and Em.
There’s only one word for her right now: glowing.
Not just because she’s stunning. Not even because she’s carrying my child.
But because for the first time since I found out, I see her proud of me. Celebratingmyaccomplishment. And it feels better than any goal could. Okay, okay, maybe the winning goal in the Cup finals or Olympics could only beat this feeling.Barely.
With her smiling as though she’s proud of me, everything else fades away. The Bird Nest Arena, the fans, the game. It all blurs until the only thing in focus is her. And for a few seconds, it’s enough.
The buzz of the win hums under my skin as I trail behind Åkerman to the family room. He got a text from Vivian saying the women were waiting forusafter the game. Like an overexcited rookie, I asked him to hang back so we could leave the locker room together.
My hair’s damp from the post-game shower and the white dress shirt under my fitted burgundy suit sticks to my back. Wearing a suit on gamedays is a hassle sometimes, but tradition is tradition.
Rounding the corner, I spot them right away. Vivian is chatting with Em, who’s animated as hell, probably recounting a play in dramatic fashion. And there, in the middle of them, is Haisley.
She’s still glowing, laughing at something Em says. Her hand rests absently on her lower stomach. It’s subtle, but now that I know, I can’tnotsee it. Can’t ignore the fact that the baby growing inside her ismine.
Haisley’s eyes find me in the crowded room. She tucks a piece of her golden hair behind her ear and smooths a hand down the front of her Peacocks purple fitted sweater. It hugs her in a way that makes my brain short-circuit.Not fucking fair.
“Nice goal, Westerholm,” she comments, her voice light.
“Thanks.” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling much more awkward than ten seconds ago. “You’re good luck, apparently.”
Åkerman snorts beside me. “Oh,nowyou believe in lucky charms.”
I shoot him a look, but he just smiles way too innocently. Em raises an eyebrow, clearly not catching the subtext, and Haisley quickly changes the subject.
“You should’ve heard when Em got into an argument with the guy next to us in the concession stand line.”
My agent huffs. “It’s not my fault that he started chirping about Jasper and Rasmus, and didn’t realize who he was standing next to.”
