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Actual NHL scouts, watching a team of leftovers play an exhibition game beneath ten thousand Christmas lights.

The game begins, and I win the faceoff in our zone and chip the puck to Aidan, who moves it up the boards with the calm of a man who has done this ten thousand times. Nate takes it through center like he's been fired out of a cannon, drawing both defensemen wide, and Baxter crashes the net a half-second too early because Baxter has the patience of a puppy at a barbecue.

The Falcons steal it back.

Their winger comes down my side, tries to cut inside, and meets my shoulder instead. He folds into the boards and the crowd roars and someone's grandmother yells something I hope the children didn't hear.

"THAT'S MY CAPTAIN!" Coach Dave screams from the bench.

We're chaotic. We're held together with tape.

But somewhere over the last week, we started becoming a team.

Behind our bench, Audrey stands with her tablet, buried inside my enormous black coat. I gave it to her before warm-ups because she showed up in a jacket built for fashion rather than survival.

She rolled her big beautiful eyes at me, but took it anyway.

A week on from when I rescued her on the side of the road, and she still hasn't admitted she works here. The lanyard around her neck says Team Liaison. The entire team obeys her like she's the fucking president.

But every time somebody gives her a title of employment, she announces she's "just helping temporarily."

I get it. A week ago she had a fiancé, a plan and a wedding dress.

Now she has a tablet, a hockey team and my coat.

Judging by everything she's told me about Brett, she traded up.

She catches me watching her from the ice and mouths something that looks a lot like concentrate on the hockey.

Sure. Concentrate. Easy.

Except every time she leans over the boards, all I can think about is her mouth under mine in that alcove, her fists yanking my suspenders to drag me closer, and the command she issued afterward with kissed lips.

You're not allowed to kiss me again. Not until I ask.

Three days ago that rule sounded like torture. Now it sounds like a game I fully intend to win, because I've decided I'm not just going to wait for her to ask.

I'm going to make her beg.

The third period winds down tied at two, and then the first genuinely coordinated thing this Wildcard team has ever produced happens right before my eyes.

The Falcons force a pass through center and I read it early, stepping into the lane and picking it off clean. Nate is already flying, so I send the puck up to him and follow the rush while Aidan drives the crease, dragging both defensemen into his orbit like a planet with tattoos.

Everyone in the building expects Nate to shoot. Nate always shoots.

Instead, he slides it back to me at the top of the circle, and I slip it across to Baxter, who's wide open at the far post because Aidan has blocked the entire defense.

Baxter buries it.

The horn sounds, and artificial snow bursts from cannons above the rink. The Christmas tree strobes through some kind of victory sequence Celeste absolutely programmed in advance, and the resort has officially caught hockey fever.

The Wildcards pile onto Baxter in the corner while flags wave and hot chocolate goes flying. I glance up at the private lounge and—

All four scouts are chatting animatedly.

Good. They've noticed.

The locker room afterward sounds like a nightclub.