They’re staring, smirking, and whispering loud enough to make sure we hear every word. “So where are they? The ones who decided blowing each other equals good team morale?”
Zeke shifts beside me, not because he’s offended, but because he’s watching me. Like he’s ready to grab my jersey if I lose my shit. But I don’t need to because Lincoln’s already stepping forward, all swagger and zero fucks.
“Right here, sweet cheeks. Want me to show you how it’s done?” He blows the opposing goalie a slow, exaggerated kiss, and some of our guys snicker.
I can’t help it—I laugh. It’s not just amusement. It’s relief and gratitude knowing the team’s actually with us.
“That’s if we can even find your cock with all that tiny-dick energy you’re throwing around,” Lincoln adds.
“Come on,” the left winger calls out, voice echoing in the tunnel as we wait to hit the ice. “You have to admit, it’s fucking hilarious that three guys on one team are all banging each other’s brains out. Is that your new strategy? Suck, fuck, and win?”
I meet his stare head-on, refusing to flinch. He falters, just a fraction, and it’s enough—I know the smug little bastard didn’t expect me to lean in, let alone own it.
“What’s even funnier is that they both got me off only a few hours ago, right where you’re standing.” I step close enough that he has to tilt his head to keep eye contact. “You never know, it might bring you some luck. Though judging by how you played last game, I’m not sure anything could help that limp-dick performance.”
Jasper cackles behind me, while Zeke rests a hand on my back, and Lincoln winks at us. We’re not just teammates. We’re a unit. A fuck-you to every locker room whisper and closed-door insult, andthe second that puck drops, I’m making damn sure the Red Wings regret ever opening their mouths.
Jasper grins, flashing a wicked smile at the guy’s scowl. “It was fucking beautiful, man,” he says, smug as hell. “Guess you had to be there.”
He smacks my ass, hard enough to make me jerk. I shoot him a glare, but it’s useless—he knows it’s all bravado. And when I finally crack a grin, Zeke’s low chuckle joins mine. With that, the three of us skate out onto the ice, shoulders squared, hearts pounding, ready to show everyone exactly who we are.
For the next forty minutes, we throw everything we have at their net, but nothing gets past those assholes. It’s not that we’re off our game, but the puck just won’t go in. During the time-out, I pull the team together and give them the kind of pep talk that comes from the gut because nobody, and I mean nobody, comes into our rink, runs their mouth, and walks out with a win.
But when play starts again, it’s like they’ve found another gear. They start flying—tight, fast, and clean—and then it happens. One mistake. One shot and they bury it.
I catch Jasper’s eye across the ice just as he throws his arms up in frustration, his stick slamming against the boards on his way back to the bench. Zeke skates past the crease, his jaw locked, rage in every stride, and I already know what’s coming next: If we lose this, the media will eat us alive. They won’t care about the effort or the stats. They’ll spin it all into our fault—mine, Zeke’s, and Jasper’s.
Fucking parasites.
The whistle blows, and play stops. My chest’s still heaving, and my gloves are clenched, but I find myself looking to the stands for any sign that the crowd’s as disappointed as we are. I know it’s dumb—I know they’re probably just as gutted as we feel.
But then, in the blur of faces, I spot a flash of blonde hairrising from a seat a few rows up. My heart stutters, and the world narrows.
Addison.
Just the sight of her makes everything else fall away. I forget the game, the noise, the pressure, and every headline trying to tear us apart—none of it matters. Because when the ice melts and the lights go out, we’re the ones who get to take our girl home.
Addison lifts her hand and points one finger in the air—our code:I love you. You’re the one.
A grin breaks across my face, uncontainable, and I lift two fingers:I love you too.
Jasper and Zeke are at my sides, following my gaze until they see her, and then they smile too. She’s laughing now, already moving down the steps in a full sprint, her hair bouncing and cheeks flushed, like she can’t wait another second. We skate to the wall, as close to her as we can get, all of us aching to touch, kiss, and hold her—ten more minutes and she’s ours.
She doesn’t wait for quiet; instead, she cups her hands around her mouth and calls out, loud enough for half the rink to hear, “Get your asses moving! They pick up on the left side, but you can outskate them there, Zeke. Jasper, you’re the best defenseman I’ve ever seen—get a handle on that puck and get it to Roman. He’ll finish the job. You’ve all got this… Now go win, or I swear I’ll put my underwear back on and keep it there till tomorrow!”
People are definitely listening, and maybe there are a few raised eyebrows, but none of us care—not one bit—and we hit the ice like the world’s on fire.
We destroyed the Red Wings, dominating every play from the moment she called out. Maybe it was adrenaline. Maybe it was pride. Or maybe it was just the fact that our girl showed up exactly when we needed her most.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
ADDISON
“Merry Christmas, baby.”Roman’s voice is thick with sleep as he presses slow, lazy kisses along the curve of my neck, pulling me tighter into his arms until there’s no space left between us. We’re tangled together in the bed I’ve been sharing with my three men every night since I landed in Boston, and honestly, moving here is the best decision I’ve ever made.
They can’t keep their hands off me, or each other, and it feels like we’re trying to make up for all the time we lost—not just the time they’ve been back in Boston without me, but all those years we spent apart, wanting and waiting and never quite letting ourselves have this.
