Page 341 of The Lies We Play

“He played at the Olympics with our backup. Hasn’t forgiven him for the third-period goal in the semifinal.”

Mihalik stares at me. “That was nine years ago.”

I shrug. “Monty Wade has the longest memory of any man in this league.”

“Goalies.”

“Exactly.”

Mihalik shakes his head like that explains every strange thing he has ever seen a goalie do, which, honestly, it does.

Across the ice, Monty is crouched in his crease, mask tilted down, eyes already tracking the next thing before the next thing exists. He looks impossible in that net. Big, patient, irritatingly calm. The puck goes behind him, and he doesn’t chase it because he knows where it’s going. He knows where everyone is going. He knows where we want to go before we’ve earned the right to get there.

That’s Monty.

That’s why I hate playing against him.

That’s why I love him when he’s not standing between me and a game-tying goal.

Halston is in the box behind the bench.

Liv is beside him.

They’re in matching team caps and my jersey.

That should not hit me as hard as it does. It’s fabric. A number. A name across their backs that the league has printed a thousand times and sold to strangers in concourses from here to Boston.

But on them, it feels different.

On Halston, the jersey looks almost indecent because he’s still Halston under it. Perfect posture. Beautiful face. Contained, watchful, too elegant for a hockey arena, and still somehow more dangerous than half the men on the ice.

He’s watching the game like he watches everything now, taking in movement, exits, patterns, the way the crowd shifts when a hit comes late. He’s better. Not fine. Better. There are parts of him still learning how to live outside survival, but he’s here, in Portland, in my jersey, with my family close enough to see him.

Liv is beside him, wearing my cap too low because she claims it gives her “sporting mystery,” which is something she said with a completely serious face and no right to be that cute. She has her hands around a paper cup of coffee, which she probably hates because arena coffee tastes like burned regret. She is watching me with that intense, overly-invested face she makes when she’s pretending she understands a defensive zone shift but mostly wants to yell at anyone who touches me.

They don’t usually travel with me.

This time, they did.

Because the Night Hawks were playing in Portland, and they’re officially meeting the Lafontaines.

Because after everything we’re doing, this is the most terrifying thing left. We’re letting ordinary people love us in daylight.

Luther is here, which is surprising since he only lives and breathes hockey. Thankfully, he had the day off and he lives close by. He’s been with the Seattle Sasquatch for four years, which means he’ll pretend the drive was nothing even though he hates traffic and will complain relentlessly.

Vesper lives here in Portland with her husbands, Monty and Callaway.

Vienna, their baby daughter, is one of my favorite people in the world.

She is also possibly the only person alive who can bully Monty Wade into wearing a plastic crown at breakfast and survive. Monty and Cally will do anything for their daughter.

Dad is here too.

Dad, who has been asking about “your people” in his careful, yet loving Lafontaine way for a couple of months.

Your people.

As if Hal and Liv are a team I’m bringing home instead of the two people I plan to spend the rest of my life choosing.