Page 181 of Rising Heat

“That’s not happening,” Mack says firmly.

Coop points triumphantly.

“THANK YOU.”

Ryan nods slowly.

“Right. Tell me again how you two don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Hate to break it to you boys, but he’s right,” Trick flashes a smile. “You’re in a relationship.”

Holy fuck…do we have a girlfriend?

Neither of us says anything. We just stare at each other like two idiots who showed up late to their own party. Marco stands and grabs his helmet as the halftime clock runs down.

“I’ve got one question.”

He waits until we’re both looking at him.

“Would it actually be so bad? If you were dating Darcy?”

I feel the answer in my chest and swallow it back before I say something stupid. Because the problem has never been Darcy. It’s everything that comes after admitting she isn’t temporary anymore.

Coach calls the next line, and I thank Christ that in a second no one’s waiting for the answer anymore.

The third period disappears in a blur after that.

Coop buries the game-winner with less than two minutes left, then spends the final horn celebrating like he’d just won the Stanley Cup instead of a charity game. The cops promise revenge next year. The firefighters promise they’ll need better players first. Business as usual.

The parking lot slowly empties as gear bags get tossed into trucks and everybody lingers around pretending they aren’t completely wiped out. Reyes yells something about beer from across the lot, and I point him toward the Bell where half the teams will inevitably end up before the night’s over.

Ryan’s the first one out, unlocking his blacked-out Ram while his eyes stay glued to his phone.

Marco hangs back near the entrance talking to a couple guys from Engine 12 while Trick comes out a minute later with his bag slung over one shoulder, looking a hell of a lot more relaxed than he did before puck drop.

Coop jogs over still riding the high of scoring the winner.

“That was epic,” he says, grinning. “Tell me somebody got that on video.”

“You tapped in a rebound,” Mack says.

“I tapped in the game-winning goal.”

“Important distinction,” I nod.

“Damn right it is.” He points between us. “You boys coming to celebrate?”

“We’ll catch up,” Mack says.

“Wicked. See you there.”

He heads toward his truck still talking to himself about the goal.

I shake my head, laughing under my breath as Mack and I climb into my Wrangler.

The drive home settles into the kind of silence that only happens after hockey, comfortable enough that neither of us feels any need to fill it while traffic inches us through a string of red lights.

My phone buzzes in the cupholder as we’re stopped at one on Dorchester.