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"I've moved my whole career before," I say, clearing my throat. "Moving's never been the problem."

Which is true. But it's also not an answer.

Callahan is sharp enough to notice, and kind enough not to say so.

"Tomorrow night is the real test. You play the Boston squad, and they're the tournament favorites. A team of actual active pros who do this every damn day." He stands and buttons his coat. "Play the way you've been playing, Stratton, and we'll have a more serious conversation after."

He leaves money on the bar and walks out through the falling snow.

It's not a contract offer.

But it's closer than anything I've received in years.

Audrey ambushes me the second I step outside, cheeks pink, breath fogging. "Well? What did the expensive coat want?"

"He's from Ottawa. He's watching the tomorrow's game." I see her face fall, but I'm quick to step in and hold her hands. "Nothing's happened."

"Nothing's happened," she repeats, and then squeezes my hand so hard my knuckles crack. She's grinning like the tree just lit up behind her eyes, but I wonder how authentic it is. "Miles. Ottawa. That's huge."

She doesn't let go of my hand the whole walk back, and I don't make her.

Mostly, because I'm afraid of what might happen if I do.

The next evening, the outdoor rink looks like Big Mike sold his soul to Christmas.

Thousands of lights burn above the boards, red flags snap in the mountain wind, and endless fire pits blaze behind the heated lounges while snow falls through the floodlights.

Every seat is full. Half of Chilmore made the drive up to watch this game.

Somewhere in the crowd, Gran is holding a sign that says COLBY IS SINGLE with a phone number that I sincerely hope is not Aidan's real one.

Boston skates their warm-up like they're bored. I know their faces, these guys are pros. They're going to hit us with faster lines, better passes and more intensity than the Wildcards are used to.

I spot Callahan behind the glass, then I spot something better.

Audrey stands near our tunnel with her coat hanging open, and underneath it is a brand-new Wildcards jersey. When she turns to grab her hot chocolate off the boards, STRATTON stretches across her back in big white letters.

Holy fuck.

She's wearing my name. In public.

She catches me staring, lifts her cup toward me in a private toast, and every drunken pre-game speech Coach Dave has ever slurred becomes instantly unnecessary.

"Captain." Nate skates past. "You're staring at the liaison again."

"I'm reviewing our support staff."

Boston owns the first period. They're faster, they're sharper, and they know it.

Baxter wants to fight everything that moves, Nate wants to solve the whole game with one heroic rush, and I spend twenty minutes doing the least glamorous work in hockey.

"They're better than us," Baxter pants beside me.

"Individually? Sure." I watch Boston's forwards get cute with an extra pass. "So we don't play them individually."

By the second period, it works. Aidan holds the puck like I tell him too, he's big and calm and fucking immovable. He's the strongest player we've got, so we keep feeding him to protect the puck as we move.

Boston's forecheck eventually breaks against him and Nate stops trying to be a highlight and starts being a weapon, his speed finally aimed inside the rink instead of around it.