Maxim (Carolina Reapers 10)

This was it.

Everything seemed to slow, and I heard myself inhale as the ref let go, and the puck dropped.

It hit the ice, and life snapped back to speed. I knocked it loose and took control, firing it over to Cannon, who skated straight for the defenseman like a charging bull who’d seen red.

He fired it across the ice and I caught it, but one of Anaheim’s forwards had fallen back and knocked it off my stick.

“Fuck,” I muttered, spinning quickly to follow after. My strides lengthened, my skates eating up the ice, and I overtook him before he even reached the blue line. “Thank you!” I said, knocking it loose and batting it straight to Brogan.

He dodged a check and the Anaheim player went straight into the boards with a crunch.

I cut back, skating up and following as Brogan shot it up to Cannon, who crossed into the Anaheim zone two seconds before I did.

Two defensemen stood between us and the goalie, one charging straight for Cannon, who shot the puck to me before doing a full stop. Another crunch sounded, and I knew it wasn’t a Reaper on the boards.

“Ten!” the crowd chanted.

The last defenseman came at me and I broke his ankles, sending the puck to the left, and then breaking toward the right, scooping it back onto my stick as I swerved around him.

“Nine!”

It was just me and the goalie.

“Eight!”

You have to get it past me if you want to get inside and warm up. Dad’s voice clawed for control of my head and I shook him the fuck out. Not today. Not now. This moment wasn’t his, it was mine.

“Seven!”

The goalie held up his glove and moved his body with mine, watching for the shot as Cannon swept behind the goal, faster than anyone I’d ever seen on skates.

“Six!” I deked once. Twice. Then I leaned my entire body to the right, and angled my stick to shoot just above his glove.

There was only time for one shot.

“Five!”

The goalie leaned in, guessing my tactic, and I changed the angle at the last second, shooting the puck far left, past the goal—to where Cannon was now wide open next to the net.

“Four!”

He had it on his stick for a millisecond before sweeping his shot around the rail and firing it straight in.

My hands were in the air before it hit the back of the net.

The lamp lit.

The crowd screamed.

We’d won. We’d won!

And I whipped my body around and skated straight for Sterling, tossing my stick and throwing my gloves before colliding with him mid-ice, our arms clasping tight around each other.

For that second, it was just the two of us, the brothers who had been raised in separate houses, under separate rules, and had somehow become family all on our own thanks to the jerseys we wore. Our names were different on the back, but we played for the emblem on the front.

“I love you!” I shouted above the noise.

“I love you, too, man!” he replied, clapping my back.

And then everyone was there, shouting with joy, hugging and piling in. Helmets went flying as Cannon slammed into us, and McKittrick jumped, arms encircling everyone as we moved with the momentum of the team, until we were pressed against the glass in our revelry. Joy coursed through my veins in a way I’d only felt once before, and I let go of Sterling only to make my way to the edge of the team, until I was pressed up against the glass, searching for the only eyes that mattered.

Evie’s.

Her smile lit up my heart, and I pounded my chest and pointed straight at her. “I fucking love you!”

She laughed and yelled it back. At least, I thought she did, since the noise around us was too rambunctious to hear a single word. But she lifted her hand to her necklace, to her heart, and pointed right back at me, and I nodded.

Hell yes, she loved me, and if I had my way, I wouldn’t be the only one with a ring soon. I was hers and she was mine, and this moment was the pinnacle of my life—up to this point. For just a second, I wished I’d played some other sport where she could have rushed the field, where I could have taken her in my arms, but we were separated by glass.

And honestly, I wouldn’t have given this sport up for anything, or anyone, but her.

The team broke apart only to hug our coaches, and I tried to soak every second in, to commit it to memory. Then someone put a baseball hat on my head and I didn’t even need to read it to know what it said—champions.

The next minutes were a blur until Axel raised the Cup above his head and skated along the glass to the cheers of the fans and our families. He paused right in front of Langley and their son, blowing a kiss at them, and I looked up at the family section, at every wife, every girlfriend, every parent and friend who had shown up to support us time and time again.