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"I really didn't," I agree, looking down at Harper. She’s leaning against me, her head on my shoulder, looking out at the water where the first hints of gold and purple are beginning to bleed into the horizon. The weight in my pocket is gone, replaced by a much more substantial weight in my heart—a feeling of belonging that makes the emptiness feel like a lifetime ago.

The air is getting cooler as the sun dips lower, but I don't feel the chill. I feel the press of Harper’s body against mine, the steady, grounding presence of my best friend, and the hard-won acceptance of my greatest rival. My life used to be a series of shutouts. Now, the scoreboard is different. I’ve let everything in, and I’ve won the most important game of my life.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JAXSON

The locker room is a zoo after practice. Twenty-two grown men in various states of undress, the air humid with a cocktail of sweat, expired muscle rub, and the rubber tang of fresh tape. The clang of gear hitting benches, the echo of hard plastic on tile, the hiss of showers in the back corner, all blend into the kind of post-scrimmage white noise I usually find meditative.

Not today.

Today, I’m sitting at my stall in partial gear—shin pads and compression shorts, jersey off, shoulders slick with the kind of sweat that feels earned—and doing my best to ignore the guy in the next stall. It’s a design flaw in the new facility, the way the benches wrap around in a tight horseshoe, putting my former nemesis and now-fellow Seattle Knight three feet from my left knee.

Ryan Coleman is peeling off his tape with a focused, rhythmic aggression that suggests he’s imagining the adhesive is my skin. It’s been four weeks since he waived his no-trade clause and joined the Knights. While our chemistry on the ice is a lethal, beautiful machine, the silence between us in the locker room is a different kind of torture.

“You moved like a glacier on that cross-crease pass, Thorne,” Ryan says, not looking up. He tosses a balled-up piece of tape toward the trash can. It misses. “If I hadn't back-checked like a saint, you’d have taken that puck right between your beady ass eyes.”

I don't look at him as I pull my pads off, the leather straps groaning under the tension. My knees ache with a dull, rhythmic throb that reminds me I’m not twenty-two anymore. “Maybe if you didn't turn the puck over at the blue line, I wouldn't have to save your ass twice a period. It’s a team sport, Coleman. Try to keep up.”

“Oh, I’m keeping up,” he mutters, finally meeting my eyes with a look that is half-teammate, half-overprotective brother. “I’m watching every single move you make. On and off the ice. Don't forget it.”

A low rumble of snickers from the other side of the room. Not loud. No one’s dumb enough to insert themselves into this pissing match. I don’t look, but I can tell half the guys are following every syllable like it’s a tennis match, heads bobbing between us.

“How can I when you prance around like a little girl with a toothache?” It’s a stupid analogy, but I’m exhausted, and it’s all my mind can come up with.

Ryan stands, dropping the towel. For half a second, I’m sure he’s going to explode, but he just stares at me, arms crossed, every muscle in his upper body wound tight.

“You don’t even make sense,” he says, and I hate to admit he’s right.

I slide my shin guards off and start peeling the tape from my left ankle, letting the silence sit between us. The other guys filter out, some shooting us side-eyes, most keeping their heads down as they change. The showers keep hissing. The locker room shrinks to just me and him.

“I know.” It kills me to admit it. Fuck, I hate this—I’m fried, my mind a giant malfunctioning machine, all the gears stripped and rattling loose. “I’m exhausted, and my usually agile mind isn’t functioning.”

“Agile mind, my ass.” Ryan lets out a huge eye roll, so aggressive I swear I hear his eyeballs pop in their sockets. “You’re a fucking dipshit.”

“A dipshit who’s married to your sister.” I try for a smile, but my mouth is heavy, my words coming out more gravel than wit.

“Don’t remind me. I have fucking nightmares about it.” He takes a deep breath in and slowly exhales. “Feel like grabbing a drink with the guys and we can discuss our nightmares?” What is he doing? He knows I never go out with our teammates after practice.

There’s a beat where neither of us moves, not even to breathe. I can’t believe he’s extending an olive branch to me. And I know I need to do this for my wife.

“Sounds like fun.”

Mick walks by, muttering, “Going out in public with you two assholes sounds like fucking hell on earth. But I live for torture, so I’m all in.”

The Blue Line sits three blocks from the practice rink: a low-ceilinged cave of dark wood and older beer smell, the walls hung with jerseys in various states of fading, the kind of place that hasn’t updated its lighting since the lockout year and is better for it.

Ryan beats me to the back corner, sliding into the booth with his arms folded tight across his chest. We’re both still in our post-practice gear of joggers and team-issued pullovers. Mick comes over and drops two icy mugs of beer on the table. “First round is on me.”

We sit there, letting the silence fill up all the places where an actual conversation should go. I count the cracks in the tabletop, wondering how fast I can get out of here and home to Harper. Ryan drains half his pint in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You ever think about how fucked up this is?” he asks, not looking at me. “A year ago, I’d have bet my left nut you’d wind up alone, retired to a cabin, talking to your thirteen cats.”

I snort. “Do I really seem like a crazy cat guy?”

He almost smiles. “You never let anyone know you. No one had any idea what kind of guy you are.”

“Until Harper,” I offer, letting the truth fall between us.