Page 57

"Ladies." Coach raises his hands. "Incredible. You know that. I know that. The city knows that." He points at us. "Now go home. Rest. Eat. Recover. We fly to Boston in two days and we need to be sharp."

Boston. The word registers somewhere in the back of my mind, but I'm too high on adrenaline to think about what it means beyond hockey. Right now, it just means more games. More of this feeling.

I shower fast. I change into sweats and a hoodie. My legs are sore, and my shoulder aches where I took that hit in the second period, but I don't care about any of it. I grab my bag and walk out into the hallway, and there they are.

Cameron is leaning against the wall with DD beside him, still in her jersey, her face bling intact, her purse over her shoulder. She looks tired but happy — the good kind of tired, the kind that comes from a full, excellent night.

"You won," DD says.

"We sure did.”

"I watched the whole thing." She looks up at Cameron. "He's nice.”

"He is," I say, and my throat tightens.

Cameron's eyes meet mine over DD's head. The gems sparkle on his cheekbones. He looks enormous, gentle, and ridiculous, and I want to climb him like a tree, but my sister is standing between us, so instead I just say, "Thank you."

"Anytime," he says. And I know he means it.

We drive DD home together. She sits in the back seat, recounting the game in detail — every goal, every time Rookie said a curse word, and the exact moment the crowd chant peaked.

“Our goalie was very good in the third period," DD says.

"Ashley was incredible," I agree.

"She stopped that one where the player went —" DD makes a motion with her hands that approximates a deke. "Then she blocked it with her foot. That was my favorite."

"Mine too," Cameron says.

We pull up to the house. Dominique is at the door, right on schedule. DD climbs out of the car, walks toward the porch, then turns.

"Cameron."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for taking me." She adjusts her purse strap. "You can take me again next time."

"I'd like that."

She nods in satisfaction and walks inside. Dominique waves and closes the door.

I sit in the passenger seat in the dark. The car idles. Cameron pulls away from the curb, and we drive the short blocks to my house in silence. The kind of silence that isn't empty. The kind that's so full of everything you want to say that the air itself feels heavy.

He parks. We sit.

"She had a great time," Cameron says.

"I know."

"She told me the sparkles made her feel like a celebrity."

I press my hand to my mouth because if I open it right now, I'm going to say something I can't take back. He glances over, and his eyes meet mine in the dark car, and he smiles. That crooked half smile.

“And what about my champion? How do you want to be celebrated?”

The question shoots through me like a current. I squeeze my thighs together and feel the ache that's been building since the final horn, since I saw him in the stands with my sister, since he put his hand over his heart and I knew.

“Very energetically,” I tell him. I can manage this. This part feels easy. I lick my lips. “Rough.”