Page 72 of Double Puck

And suddenly, Poppy's voice rings in my head again. Maybe you don't need to know what to say to your father yet.

Maybe Mason has found his version of coping with all of this.

Mine just… looks different to his.

That's allowed. Right?

"Cool," I say. "Well… Tell him I said hi."

Mason looks at me, slightly confused, but then he nods. "I'll pass it along."

I finished getting dressed, and within minutes, there's no more room in my head for fathers or trades or anything except the only language I've ever spoken fluently.

Hockey.

Coach gathers us in the tunnel, one hand on the wall, the other gripping his iPad.

"Alright, boys! Listen up. This team is fast, they're physical, and they think we're a gimmick." He scans the huddle surrounding him, then his steely gaze lands on me, and stays right there when he says, "So get out there! And show us what you're worth."

The guys bang their sticks against the concrete. I just hold Coach's stare.

Message received, Coach. Loud and clear.

The tunnel swallows us one by one, skates ringing off concrete, the gold letters on the wall shining in my eyes.

THEY CAME FOR THE BEACH. WE STAYED FOR THE FIGHT.

Declan skates out first, then Mason is at his shoulder. The roar is deafening as we hit the ice together, the Bear Cave detonating.

"Fuck yes!" I shout, raising my stick alongside my brothers, gliding across the rink at speed.

The three of us stand at center ice for the opening ceremony, side by side, and the noise goes nuclear. Declan on my left, Mason on my right, the Bear Cave shaking itself apart around us. Three brothers in blue and gold, shoulder to shoulder, and every single one of those twelve thousand fans is on their feet screaming for us.

The Morrison Brothers.

That's the brand.

That's the attraction Josie created that no spreadsheet in the world can manufacture.

Say whatever you want about my stats, put whatever numbers you want in whatever column makes you feel smart, but whenever we hit the ice… the Bear Cave explodes.

The jumbotron explodes with graphics, the recorded bear roar shakes the building hard enough to ripple every drink in the house, and somewhere up in the suite, Morgan Morrison is holding a homemade sign that says UNCLE BECK OWES ME A GOAL.

Rink-side, the Madden Gala VIPs are living their best lives behind the glass in the front row of the Frostline section, one of them wearing a brand new jersey with the tags probably still on it. I skate past during warmups and flip a puck over the glass to them, and the whole section reacts like I've handed over a winning lottery ticket.

This. This is what she can't put in a spreadsheet.

I find the suite window, and even from the ice I can pick out the sleek dark bob, the navy blazer, the tablet glowing in her hands. Darcy's standing between Josie and Rose, a glass of white wine in one hand, the tablet balanced in the other. Josie's stealing from Rose's popcorn bucket while Rose swats at her fingers without looking away from the ice.

Darcy sees me looking up and I swear she smiles.

My chest does that stupid warm thing again.

Fuck, I'm excited to see her.

Not Analyst Madden. Not the woman watching my every move tonight to decide whether I keep my job.

I'm excited to see Darce. The woman who I had soaking wet and wrapped around me. Those soft lips against my mouth before everything between us went completely off the rails in the best fucking way possible.