Page 29 of Pucked Into Position

Time seems to slow as it slides across center ice, somehow avoiding every stick in its path. My breath catches when I realize where it’s headed.

Straight toward their empty net.

No fucking way.

The puck crosses the goal line.

The overhead horn blares and the crowd goes insane.

2–0.

Before I can process the sheer absurdity of the play, my teammates are crashing into me, shouting and slamming their gloves against my helmet.

“Walker! You fucking scored!”

I’m laughing as I shove them away. “Game’s not over yet.”

But with only seconds left and a two-goal lead, we all know it practically is.

We reset for the faceoff, and the final seconds tick almost as quickly as they start.

The buzzer sounds.

This time, there’s no holding back.

Gloves and sticks scatter across the ice as the guys crash into one another, shouting and celebrating. Someone rips my helmet off, and then I’m buried beneath my teammates.

I laugh, and finally let it sink in.

We won.

We fucking won the Stanley Cup!

Eventually, we pull ourselves together for the traditional handshake line. One by one, the opposing players skate past, offering handshakes and congratulations. A few shake their heads when they reach me, still looking like they can’t believe the goalie scored on them.

As the celebration swells around us again, coaches, staff, and family begin making their way onto the ice. I scan the crowd until I find the only person I want to see.

Then I see her.

Lana steps carefully onto the ice in one of my home jerseys, the fabric swallowing her whole. Tucker follows behind her, grinning like an idiot, but I barely register him.

All I see is her.

She moves carefully toward me through the celebration, tears already streaming down her cheeks. The second she reaches me, she throws herself into my arms. I catch her easily and lift her clean off her feet. She buries her face into the crook of my neck, her arms wrapped around me in a vise.

“You did it!” she sobs against my neck, her voice thick with tears. “Oh my god, Ryan! You did it!”

“We did it, baby girl,” I murmur, kissing her temple.

I glance up, making sure her face is still tucked against me.

Tucker steps forward. Without a word, he reaches into his pocket and hands me a small velvet box.

I take a deep breath, feeling the weight of the box as my heart thrashes frantically. I carefully set Lana down, my arm still wrapped around her waist to steady her. She blinks, wiping stray tears from her cheeks, looking confused as I step back.

“Lana,” I start, my tongue thick. My eyes flicker to Tucker. He nods his approval, and in front of the twenty thousand screaming fans, the other players, and a wall of flashing cameras, I drop to one knee in front of her.

Lana’s hands fly to her mouth, and her eyes are wide as saucers.