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But I could tell in his eyes that he knew. After all, he was exactly the same, which was the reason his smart little girlfriend was always front and center at his games.

We stepped back onto the ice, and West, ahead of me, shot me a rare grin.

“Oh well, looks like you’re out of excuses, Sinclair. Better wake the fuck up.”

He moved away, and I checked the seats behind the players’ bench.

There she was.

She’d just sat and struggled to get my hockey jersey over the stretchy black underlayer she still wore often. Winter tried to help her tug it down at the back.

Winter saw me, murmured something to Selena, and my heathen glanced up and saw me.

She smiled, and it was a sight that would reanimate a dead man.

I walked forward until I was as close to her as I could get, and she leaned over the railing above me.

“Running late, were we?” I murmured.

“Only a little. Don’t tell me you noticed already.” Her lips curved in a knowing grin. “You’ve got it bad, haven’t you?”

I slammed my cage down to end the temptation to kiss her. “Undeniably.”

She laughed, and it was music to my ears. “You’re obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

I grinned back up at her. “Exactly. If I’m not watching you sleep, file a missing person’s report.”

“You two are so weird,” Winter remarked beside Selena.

“Yep, we are.” Selena grinned broadly at her friend and straightened up, waving a hand in the direction of the ice. “Now, go and win. I didn’t come here to watch you lose.”

“Got it, heathen. You just think how you’ll congratulate me once I snatch a win from the jaws of our impending defeat.”

I walked toward the ice as Marcus spoke behind me. “That was big talk, Sinclair. You better bring it.”

“You just concentrate on stopping the puck with that thick head of yours. I’ve got the goals covered.”

I waited in the center for the whistle to blow, hot anticipation roaring through me. A lust for life, a feeling of excitement, a rush of something that felt dangerously close to contentment. It was the difference between when Selena was at the game and when she wasn’t. Just like my entire life before her.

The puck dropped.

I exploded forward the second our defenseman chipped it loose. The crowd rose instantly, a wave of noise crashing over the rink. I could hear blades cutting ice behind me, sticks clacking, the pounding of my own heartbeat inside my helmet.

One defender stepped up at the blue line.

I deked left. He bit.

I snapped the puck through his legs and blew past him, the crowd screaming louder. Open ice appeared ahead of me. Their goalie crouched low, tracking every movement. I faced guys like him every season—big, calm, impossible to rattle. They were even more fun to take down. I hunted for my opening.

But I saw it. A tiny opening above his blocker.

My teammate raced down the right side, yelling for the pass, but I kept the puck. The last defender lunged at me with his stickextended. I dragged the puck backward at the last second, spun around him, and cut straight into the slot.

The arena fell silent for one impossible moment.

Then I fired.

The puck rocketed off my blade and screamed into the top corner.Ping.