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North Pines.

Only now, my best friend, Declan Beckett, is wearing St. Louis blue and I’m wearing Chicago green.

The whistle blows.

I settle over the faceoff dot.

Read the ice. Find the opening. Make the play.

Everything else disappears.

We win four-three.

Beckett gets one past us in the second and acts like an asshole about it.

I return the favor by drawing both defenders toward me late in the third and slipping the puck across the slot instead of taking the shot.

Jax buries it.

Game.

By the time I get through media, shower, and pull on a clean suit, the adrenaline has settled into that heavy post-game ache I know almost as well as my own heartbeat.

My thighs burn.

There’s a tender spot along my ribs where Beckett caught me against the boards in the third.

And I’m fucking starving.

Mrs. B gets to me first. “Good game, sweetheart.”

She hugs me before I can answer.

“Thanks, Mrs. B.”

Coach reaches for my hand, then pulls me into a quick one-armed hug.

“Good game.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Lost two faceoffs in the third.”

I stare at him. His mouth twitches.

“Missed you too.”

Declan is already showered and changed into his suit, standing beside his mother like he didn’t spend the last three hours trying to put me through the glass.

Then I see Laney.

The jersey is even worse up close.

Sleeves shoved to her elbows. Brown hair loose over one shoulder. Cheeks still pink from the arena.

She catches me looking. “What?”

I point at her jersey.