Page 62 of Scoring Chance

The guys chuckle at my comment, throwing off any suspicion of weirdness. Unlike Tanner’s bedroom, this is one room where I feel at ease. These are my guys.

“You good, Tanner?” I turn to him, try not to get bowled over by his big, sweetheart eyes.

“Yes. Just trying to get into the zone,” he says. Fortunately, Tanner’s pregame ritual is to be very quiet and pensive, so the guys think he’s acting himself. They can’t sense the I-got-sucked-off-by-my-best-friend weirdness that I can feel coming off in waves.

I bounce my knee against his thigh. “You good?”

“Uh. Yeah.”

“Tan…” I force him to meet my eyes.

He stands up and is the first one to throw on his helmet. “I’m good. Let’s get out there.”

On the ice, I don’t know what to expect from my fellow offense man. Bill, our center, wins the puck drop. He passes it to me. I take a quick breath and pass to Tanner, hoping this game isn’t a flaming disaster.

The second the puck hits my stick, everything shifts.

Because this? This is ours.

This is where we’re most us.

From the opening whistle, we fall into our usual rhythm. No, not our usual rhythm. Better. More in sync. Like we share the same damn brain. It’s uncanny. Tanner and I move like two parts of the same body—passes gliding between us without a word, instinct taking over. Tanner cuts left, and I’m already there. I drive forward, he drops behind, scooping up the rebound like he knew I’d miss just a hair too high.

We’re art out there. Fluid, fast, unstoppable.

The play unfolds before I even think about it, like Tanner and I drew it up in secret. He cuts left, I drift right, and the defense scrambles, chasing shadows. I send the puck across the slot, trusting he’ll be there, and of course he is—he always is. One touch from him, back to me, and it’s like the ice clears just for us. I don’t even see the goalie, just Tanner’s grin flashing in the corner of my eye as I bury the shot. The crowd roars, but all I hear is the quiet certainty between us—that perfect, wordless connection, as if we’ve only ever shared one brain.

By the second period, we’ve scored three goals between us. The rest of the team is feeding us the puck like it’s automatic.

By the third period, we’re laughing. Laughing.

Whatever fog was between us—gone. Melted away by sweat and speed and the solid thunk of blades carving ice.

He slaps my back after we score again. “That pass was disgusting.” He grins.

“You’re welcome, husband,” I mutter, catching my breath.

He laughs and bumps his helmet against mine. “Guess this marriage has some benefits.”

It’s ridiculous how good that makes me feel.

After the game, we head into the locker room. Steam rises from the showers. The guys are all chatter and towel slaps, stretching and hydrating and catching up like Sunday warriors do.

“That wasn’t just a victory out there. That was domination!” Bill yells.

“Best game you guys ever played,” Mitch says nodding at Tanner and me.

“MVP! MVP!” The guys shout in unison, their voices echoing against in the small quarters.

Tanner grabs my hand, and we lift our arms in the air, soaking in the acclaim.

Bill Crandell is not one for showing emotion. A half-smile from him is as happy as he gets. He’s gruff and serious and has no intentions in changing that, not even after falling in love with his assistant last year. He is the only guy that love hasn’t turned into a softie. But he’s positively glowing. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen his face more animated. “You guys were on fire out there! Holy shit! Your passing was freaking poetry. We nearly shut them out.”

“It was all Tanner,” I say.

“No. It was all Des,” he zings back. “That shot in the second quarter was a thing of beauty.”

“Only because of your cross-ice pass through the legs of that other player. That pass needs to be hung in the Louvre.”