End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

A WEEK LATER

THE NOISE from the crowd heats up as I face off with Gray.

Playing against any of my billet family always amps up the competition but tonight, I’m leaving Arizona with a win.

My mind is firing at a hundred miles a minute and it’s fucking exhilarating. My game usually goes to shit when I’m happy, but if this is me playing like shit, fuck the critics.

Swerving around Gray, who’s riding my ass like I’m a bull at the Calgary Stampede, I manage to race toward the goal, just in time for Lewis to take his shot.

The puck bounces off the goalie’s glove, forcing me to chase after it behind the net. Their defenseman closes the angle, almost ramming me in the boards, but I make it around the net and fire off a shot.

I miss.

Kerrigan catches the ricochet but their offense swiftly seizes the opportunity of him sucking ass and takes back control of the puck.

Ignoring the screams of the crowd, I channel my joie de fucking vivre as I go after Gray in the corner and dig out the puck.

Skating to the front of the net, I try to put it in the top corner on his glove side but their goaltender is on it again. Still, he loses his stick in the process.

Lewis jumps on the rebound and passes it to me.

I try to one-time it home, but the guy is on fire tonight and he hurls his body in front of the puck.

I’m nothing if not stubborn—to the boos from the crowd, I race to the back of the net, pick the disk, wrap it around, and finally put that sucker away.

At long fucking last.

I play like shit when I’m happy, mon cul.

In the momentum, heart racing, lungs burning, Lewis and I hug in celebration.

While I skate back toward the center, Gray shouts, “You still eating four-leaf clovers for breakfast, you asshole?”

Sweat pouring down my face, I beam a grin that not even my mouthguard can hide.

On the days when that is the first goal of a hat trick, I feel like I really do have the luck of the Irish with me.

Or, maybe it’s my Polish girlfriend who’s bringing me all the good juju?