Page 65 of Julian

Al launches into it, some hybrid of a shuffle and a shoulder roll that makes absolutely no sense and yet somehow works perfectly. The section loses it, people on their feet, clapping, shouting his name.

The camera lingers, so I improvise… I pull my hat down lower, angling my face away as I stand, stepping into the edge of the frame without fully giving myself up.

“You’re not—” Harper starts, already laughing.

I don’t answer. I join him.

It’s ridiculous and I’m aware of that, but for a few seconds it doesn’t matter. The crowd feeds it, the noise rising, Al pointing at me mid-dance like he’s just pulled off the greatest assist of his life.

I shake my head, stepping back as the camera cuts away, dropping back into my seat before the recognition catches up.

Harper stares at me, laughing openly now. “I cannot believe you just did that.”

“Neither can I,” I reply, though the corner of my mouth betrays me.

“You’re insane.”

“Occasionally.”

The game resumes, and the momentum continues building.

We add another before the end of the second, Grizz this time, reading the play perfectly and slipping it past the goalie before the defense can recover. Philadelphia answers early in the third, but we don’t let it derail our momentum. We stay disciplined.

By the time the final horn sounds, the scoreboard reads 4–2 and we have another solid win in the books.

The section stands again, applause rolling through the building, and I remain where I am, taking it in—not from above, not from behind the glass of my suite, but from among the people who carry this team with them, game after game, season after season.

Beside me, Harper rises with the rest of them, the jersey fitting her like it belongs there… because it does.

After the game, we spill out with the rest of the crowd, the noise of the arena following us into the night before it dissipates into the open air. The cold has softened, just enough that it doesn’t bite the way it did earlier, and I pause beside the Range Rover, keys in hand, already knowing I’m not going to use them.

“It’s not that cold out,” I say, glancing up the street before looking back at her. “We could walk.”

Harper follows my gaze, then back to me, a small smile forming. “Walk? But the car…”

“I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow morning,” I add, taking her hand in mine. “I need to work off the damage I did to that plate of fully loaded nachos in the third period.”

She laughs. “That’s very responsible of you.”

“I try my best,” I reply.

We walk north on Broadway and she touches her right ear and lets out a gasp.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I think I lost my earring. It must have come out while we were celebrating with Big Al.”

“I’ll call our rink operations right now and tell them to find it.”

“No, no. That’s okay. It was a fake diamond. This is why I’m glad I never spent money on expensive jewelry. Forget it… anyways, it was well worth losing a stupid earring for all the excitement we experienced with that group.”

“You sure?”

She nods as we continue up the busy Manhattan street.

“That was really fun,” she says finally, glancing over at me. “I mean… I knew I’d like the game, but that?” She shakes her head, smiling. “It was incredible… I loved hanging with those fans.”

“The section helps,” I say. “They take it seriously.”