Meet Your Match (Kings of the Ice)

“Alright, stay on him, stay on him! Skate, skate!”

I called out to our guys on the ice along with the rest of the team on the bench, chugging water and trying to catch my breath. My eyes skirted to the scoreboard, heart hammering in my chest.

We were tied two-two with less than ten minutes left in the last period.

Both of those goals were mine.

It was an explosive game for a rookie, and I knew that’s all the commentators would be talking about regardless of how this one turned out. But internally, the team felt something completely different.

Everyone on that bench with me and everyone out on the ice knew something was wrong.

I didn’t miss the way they’d eyed me over the last few days, how they’d tiptoed around me, avoiding all conversation. Coach didn’t ask if I was okay, and my teammates didn’t poke me for information, either.

Because my heart was broken and bleeding, but I was more focused on hockey than I had been all season.

I threw my all into it. I spent all my time at the rink — skating, biking, recovering, stretching, sleeping. Whatever I could do here, I did it.

And tonight, when we skated out for the first period, I lost myself in the one constant in my life.

I just wished it was enough.

Both goals I scored felt like nothing. I didn’t get the zip of accomplishment I usually did. I didn’t do a celly dance or chirp at the goalie or give any kind of reaction to the roar of the crowd. For the first time in my life, I felt numb on the ice.

It scared me almost as much as the thought that I’d actually lost Maven.

Watching Will at the goal, I wondered if this was how he felt, if this was why he was always so quiet, so severe and focused. I wondered if he threw himself into hockey so he wouldn’t have time to think about the loss of his wife.

My stomach roiled, and I thought I might actually puke there on the bench. One of the trainers ran over to check on me when I gagged, but I waved them off, assuring them I was fine. My eyes locked on Coach’s next, begging him to call the line change so I could get back in.

When we cleared the puck out of our zone, Coach nodded, and I was already jumping the boards as the other line skated over to the bench.

As soon as my skates hit the ice, I felt calmer, steadier, less like I was about to spin out of orbit and float off into space. That ice grounded me, the thrum of the crowd humming in my veins as I sprinted toward the puck. I slammed into Ryan Crosby, heaving us both into the boards where we battled for the puck until I stole it away.

Then, I was skating down the ice.

I passed to our center, running a play that I knew would get me in scoring position. As soon as I was lined up, he shot the puck back to me.

But before I could take a swing, I was tripped.

I felt the stick catch my ankle, felt how my feet were pulled up from under me without a chance in hell of me saving it. I slammed down to the ice, my breath knocked out of me to the roaring disapproval of the crowd.

The boos intensified when the ref didn’t call the foul.

I jumped up, gritting my teeth before I laid into him. “Need to borrow my cell, ref? You got a few missed calls.”

He ignored me, which was par for the course, and normally I would have shaken it off.

But nothing about tonight was normal.

Before sense could set in, I skated hard and fast down the ice toward the player who had tripped me, and I shoved him into the glass so hard the entire stadium let out a collective, “Oh!”

Crosby was the first one to swing at me when he saw his teammate knocked to the ice, and then we were all fighting, the crowd cheering as we whaled on each other until the refs peeled us apart.

When they did, I was being steered toward the penalty box.

Coach gave me a stern look when they tossed me in, and I kicked the side of the boards before slamming my stick against the glass so hard I wondered if I’d cracked it.

I sat down furious, stewing, glancing at the clock and cursing when I saw we only had six minutes left. Two of those minutes would be a power play for our opponents now.

I cracked my neck as the puck was dropped and the power play began. Our fans chanted and cheered, giving their support to the four players we had on the ice trying to defend the post. Daddy P was an absolute weapon, blocking every shot that came close.

I watched from the sin bin with my eyes losing focus, brain fuzzy and in a daze. I wasn’t on the ice, and I felt that numbness creeping in again, threatening to drown me, to take me under and never let me up for air.

I glanced up at the clock, and then down at the bench across the ice, hoping to lock eyes with one of my teammates and get the reinforcement I needed to pull me back to the game.

Instead, I found Maven.

Time slugged to a stop like an old train, every noise that made the collective roar of the arena fading out piece by piece. First it was the screams, and then the sticks hitting the ice, the skates, the chirps, until nothing existed but my heartbeat.

It was unsteady and loud in my ears, my ribcage restricting every breath as I blinked, wondering if I was imagining her there. When she hadn’t shown by the second period, I was so sure she wouldn’t show at all.

But here she was — eyes red and swollen under the makeup she’d tried to cover them with. Even still, she was breathtaking.

She stood at the end of the bench, half-hidden behind the thick glass that led back to our locker room. Her hair was tied at the nape of her neck, an Ospreys hat pulled over top. Even from across the ice I noted the freckles on her cheeks, the ones I had mapped out at this point from all the mornings I’d traced the lines between them as she slept next to me.

And she was wearing my jersey.

It wasn’t just my jersey, either — it was the jersey, the one still marked by my clay handprints.

Possession ripped through my chest at the sight, at my team’s logo sprawled across her chest and my number stitched onto the sleeves. I knew without seeing her turn around that it was my name across the top of her back, too.

It was a declaration without a word being said. It was her telling me what I was sure I’d never hear. It was every gut-wrenching hour of the past few days erased in a single second.

My eyes skated over that jersey, over her chest and shoulders and the exposed skin of her collarbone, too. I took my time, gaze lingering on her lips until I found her eyes once more.

Her smile was soft and tentative, and she shrugged, looking down at the jersey before she caught my eyes again.

She was here.

She was mine.

I knew it like I knew ice was cold. I knew just by her presence, by her wearing that jersey, by the way her brows bent together as she watched me from across the rink.

Now, my sole focus was on ending this game and getting her in my arms.

Time and sound and energy snapped back all at once, like I had just kicked my way above the treacherous waves and sucked in my first breath. There were eight seconds left in the power play, and as soon as they ticked down to zero, the crowd erupted.

We’d killed the penalty.

I kicked through the box door and flew out onto the ice, joining my team as they battled against our opponents’ advance. And I wasted no time, stealing the puck and sending it down to the other side of the rink as we all chased after it.

The numbness was gone. Every cell in my body buzzed to life with Maven in that arena, with her eyes on me, with my jersey hanging off her shoulders. Through all the noise, I heard her scream my name, heard her cheers rising out above the rest.

My legs burned as I skated fast and furious down the ice. The two-minute rest had me feeling stronger than I had all game, and I blocked any player who tried to check me or steal the puck. I was laser-focused — a pass, a shot attempt, a steal, a pass. We wreaked havoc on their goalie after two minutes of them doing the same to us.

And in a slow-motion moment of clarity, I saw an opening.

I dangled players on my team and theirs, passing the puck to Carter long enough for me to skate through their defense. He sent it back to me with perfect timing for a beautiful slap shot.

I wound up and slammed it home, the puck zipping right past the goalie’s helmet and into the top right of the net.

The explosion from the crowd was deafening. The buzzer didn’t just sound and cut off, it rang on, like someone in traffic trying to make a point by laying on their horn for a full minute. It made my ears ring as my teammates tackled me, all of us screaming and jumping and clinging to each other. In the next breath, hats rained down on the ice.

It was my first hat trick in the NHL.

They flew from the rafters and from behind the glass, too. Some fans even threw their stuffed animal fishes, a signal to the other team that even though there were minutes left to play, our fans were sure we’d win. It was all we could do to sidestep the toys and the hats as we celebrated.

But I smiled the more they rained down, because that meant more to clean up.

And that meant play would stop.

Breaking out of the huddle of my teammates, I made a beeline for the bench as the crowd roared their thunderous approval. I dodged hats every step of the way, my eyes locked on Maven, who was still jumping and screaming and celebrating, too.

I jumped the boards with my teammates still on the bench clapping me on the shoulders, but I shoved past them, past coach, past the trainers and everyone else. I dropped my stick and ripped off my helmet just in time to slide up in front of Maven.

“I’ll take that,” I said, swiping the hat off her head. I placed it backward on my own, and then I swept her into my arms and kissed her.

It was the deepest breath I’d taken in days, my lungs filling themselves greedily as I held my lips to hers. Maven threaded her arms around my neck, holding me to her as if I was ever letting go now, and the crowd grew to a decibel that could permanently damage ear drums. I fisted my hands in her jersey, kissing her deeper, my heart slowly melding back together.

I was whole again.

“You’re here,” I whispered against her lips, breaking the kiss only long enough to say them before I was claiming her again.

“I’m here.” She gripped my damp hair in her hands, pressing her forehead to mine. “I’m so sorry, Vince. I’m sorry I ran. I’m sorry I’m like this.”

“Stop.” I shook my head, kissing her silent. “It’s not your fault. And for the record, I still want to murder that piece of shit for making you feel this way.”

“Don’t worry, I beat you to it.”

I cocked a brow, pulling back to look down at her. “You killed him? Shit,” I said, looking around and holding her head to my chest. “Maybe we shouldn’t pull stunts that will have you all over national television right now.”

She laughed against my chest, swatting at it before her glossy eyes were peering up at me. “I killed the hold he still had on me,” she said. “I killed the fear.”

“I’m a little scared, too, you know.”

“Wrap it up, Tanev!” I heard Coach yell, and I didn’t turn around, but I guessed they were close to done with the hat cleanup on the ice. I also didn’t have to glance up to know that every phone in that arena was pointed right at where I held Maven, where she held me.

“You?” She laughed. “Why?”

“Because I’ve never felt this way for anyone,” I confessed, thumbing her jaw. “I’ve been fucking sick, Mave. I’ve been numb. You see these marks?” I asked her, gripping the clay-covered spots of her jersey. “This is how you’ve stained me. You’re everywhere. Do you know how terrifying it is that you have that much power over me, that without you, not even hockey makes me feel alive?”

“I do. I do know what that feels like. That’s the whole reason I ran.” She swallowed. “What if we fuck it all up?”

“We won’t.”

“What if we do?”

I shrugged. “Well, then I guess there’s no one I’d rather let ruin me for anyone else.” I framed her face in my hands, thumbing away a tear when it slid down her cheek. “Give me your heart.”

“It’s already yours,” she said, climbing me, crushing me to her. “Please, don’t break it.”

“Never,” I promised.

I kissed her again to another chorus of whistles and cheers from the crowd, both of us inhaling the other and holding on for dear life. I could have stayed there forever.

But there were still three minutes left to play.

“NOW, FORTY-ONE,” Coach said, and the sternness in his voice told me that — hat trick or not — my ass was going to be grass if I didn’t comply.

“Go,” Maven told me, pushing against my chest.

“That was for you, by the way,” I said, pulling the hat off my head and tugging it down on hers again. I backed up with a wink as she shook her head at me, and then someone handed me my helmet and my stick, and I joined my teammates on the bench just in time for the puck to drop.

Coach stared at me like he was going to end my life, but then he smirked, shaking his head before folding his arms over his chest as he turned his attention to the ice. I knew I’d be paying for my stunt, but every drill, every lap, every minute of pain would be worth it.

My knees bounced, eyes on the ice but focus completely obliterated now. I just needed my team to hold for a few more minutes. I needed this game to be over.

I needed Maven back in my arms, in my bed.

Coach called for a line change with sixty seconds left, just as our opponents pulled their goalie. It was all hands on deck to defend against them. Will batted every shot attempt away, and the rest of us served as a first and second line of defense, doing everything we could to hold the score.

And we did.

They tried with their last shred of desperation to hit us at the final buzzer, but Daddy P dropped his knees together and covered the puck with his glove.

And that was it.

We won.

I swept Maven back into my arms the moment the final buzzer sounded.