A Little Secret (The Little Things #4)

Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

GRIFFIN

I ’ve given a lot of pre-game speeches. More than I can count if I’m being honest. Sometimes, they hit. Sometimes, they don’t, but with everything riding on the game and no one knowing about any of it, I’m wound so fucking tight I might actually puke.

Everett isn’t talking to me. I figured as much, but when I entered the locker room, and the asshole stonewalled me, it only solidified the shitty situation. He’s pissed, and he has every right to be. I know Ev, though. Forcing him to talk when he isn’t ready could easily blow up in my face, but so could keeping him in the dark. With the baby. With the potential trade. He glances my way, then turns to Dreggs and nods, acting as if he’s paying attention to whatever our teammate is saying.

I make a note to corner him before the game, then climb onto one of the benches, making myself a foot taller than everyone else in the room. Right now, I need to get my head in the game, and I need to make sure my teammates are as invested as I am in playing our best tonight .

“Listen up!” I yell. The metal clanging and low hum of chatter in the locker room quiet.

Now or never , I remind myself.

“There are moments in life,” I boom. “Average moments. Moments taken for granted. And tonight might look like one more game for the books, but we’re twelve games away from playoffs. Twelve. Games.” I pause and rotate slowly, confirming I have everyone’s attention. “Twelve games to make a difference. Twelve games to up our stats. Twelve games to break records and to wear LAU’s name on our jerseys before the season ends. We might be a shoo-in for the championship, but let’s play like it’s our last.”

The team hits their helmets against the lockers, and the sound reverberates through the room. It’s so loud, I have no doubt they can hear us in the arena, but I welcome it. The energy. The solidarity. The brotherhood we’ve forged in this very room over years of blood, sweat, and tears. From wins to losses, both on and off the ice, these are my brothers.

Glancing at my best friend, guilt claws at my insides. He’s my brother, too, and I’ve done what I swore I never would. I’ve lied to him. And I might not be able to rectify everything, but I can start somewhere. I jump off the wooden bench and open my locker, grabbing my skates and lacing up. He’s still talking with Dreggs. I’ll smooth shit out in a minute. I hate to. Before the game. Before he has another reason to hate me. Before I move our friendship another step in the wrong direction.

“Hey, man,” Reeves says. Slapping his locker closed, he slips on his gloves and palms his stick. “Nice speech.”

“Gotta say something to keep the spirits up,” I lie, though I’m not exactly wrong, either. I do need to keep their spirits up. We’ve been stagnant lately. Going through the motions. And yeah, we’re winning, but where’s the heart?

“Your dad here?” he prods.

I shake my head. “Why?”

“You seem…” Hesitating, he scans me up and down. “More nervous than usual. You’re only like this during playoffs and when your dad’s watching.”

He’s right. I’m always more on edge when my dad or brother are in the stands.

Nothing like being the youngest boy in a long line of overachievers. And yeah, the list includes Jax, too. He might’ve passed up on his career as a professional player to coach the Ladyhawk’s team, but it wasn’t because he couldn’t hack it. It was because he wanted a challenge, and building an organization from the ground up is no easy feat. Regardless, I should be grateful. I’m used to the pressure. The need to show up and perform and kick ass when it counts. And today? Today, it counts.

“You hear the Lions’ GM is in the stands?” Reeves asks.

Finished tying my skates, I look up at him and grab my gloves from my open locker. “Do you know why he’s here?”

“Nah, but I was hoping you would.”

“Why would I know?”

With a shrug, he leans against the closed locker beside me. “Just curious.”

Oliver. Fucking. Reeves. The man is way more astute than any of us give him credit for. The question is, does he already know the answer, or is he searching for the puzzle pieces so he can connect the dots? And when he does—cause it sure as shit isn’t if —what then?

“He not talking to you?” Reeves adds, glancing at Ev.

I shake my head but don’t answer.

“Figured.” He slaps my shoulder. “Congratulations, by the way. I know shit hit the fan earlier, but we’re happy for you. Me. Mav. Ev.”

I scoff. “Liar.”

“Okay, maybe not the Everett part.” He grins. “Not yet, anyway. He’ll come around, though.”

“Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

“Nah, he will. Lia was right. Fin being tied to Drew for the rest of her life would’ve been a bitch. You?” He shrugs. “You’ll take care of them.”

A lump lodges in my throat, but I swallow it back, appreciating his confidence in me more than he knows. I will take care of them. I’ll do whatever it takes. I have to.

“Thanks, man,” I mutter. “I, uh, I appreciate it.”

“Listen up!” Coach booms when he appears from his office. The team quiets, some gathering their helmets and sticks, others already prepared to take to the ice as we turn toward Coach Sanderson. The legend. Other than the shaved head and a few more wrinkles, he looks the same as when he coached my dad and Uncle Theo. Yeah. Talk about trying to live up to a person’s expectations.

I shake the thought off and try to focus.

Arms folded, Coach continues, “I know you already heard your captain’s speech, but Thorne’s right. Play every game like it’s your last, and we’ll keep making a name for LAU. Let’s go!”

As we head down the tunnel toward the ice, I trail behind the team, playing out every potential outcome of today’s game and if I’ll be able to get through it without fucking up things with Everett or Finley or Uncle Henry. My attention slides to Ev. I wonder if he knows the Lions’ GM is here. Probably. If Reeves knows, there’s no way Everett doesn’t, right? But even then, does he know the guy is here for both of us? Does he know we’re pitted against each other? That I pitted us against each other, even if it’s the last thing I would’ve wanted?

Shit, I don’t even know what to do anymore. What’s right. What isn’t. If I’m being selfish or deceptive or loyal.

He would want me to look after Finley. Especially with a baby on the way. I know he would. If I could only explain myself. The situation. Make him understand.

“Ev, wait up!” I call.

Looking over his shoulder, he eyes me warily and sighs. “Not now, man.”

“Listen—”

“I need my head in the game, Griff. Especially this one. Just…leave it alone, all right?”

“I need to talk to you?—”

“Yeah, and I need to play well tonight,” he interrupts. “Don’t worry, though. I won’t be a dick on the ice. Let’s just play. We’ll talk about you and my sister later.”

Leaving me behind, he quickens his pace down the tunnel, and I stand dumbfounded.

This isn’t only about me and Fin. It’s about the game, too. It’s about the Lions’ GM Everett thinks is here for him when that isn’t necessarily the case. Maybe he is. Maybe he isn’t. But either way, I’m fucked, and so is Ev. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The familiar roar of the crowd rumbles through the arena, and the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers. When he calls my jersey number, I glide onto the ice and tighten my grip on my stick, feeling the familiar grooves under my gloved fingers. Searching the stands, my attention lands on the Lions’ GM for the briefest of seconds until a poster with red glitter and the words, “My boyfriend is hotter than yours,” steals my attention a few rows below. Finley raises the poster a little higher into the air, her smile growing as soon as our gazes connect .

“You. Got. This,” she mouths, and I swear I can hear her fucking words.

I got this.

The bright lights pound down on me. I head to the bench with the rest of the team until Coach gives me the green light to hit the ice. As I skate into position, the crowd's roar surrounds me, a cacophony of excitement and anticipation.

I got this , I remind myself.

My heart pounds in my chest, adrenaline surging through my veins as Everett lines up for the face-off.

The puck drops, and I’m off, my skates cutting sharp lines into the glassy ice. I weave through the opposing team's defense, stickhandling with precision when my eyes lock onto the net. Almost there. I approach the goal and stop short, waiting for the inevitable pass I know is coming.

Come on, Ev. Come on.

Ice sprays, and I twist around in time to catch Everett winding up and chipping the puck off the boards. I catch it, and with a quick flick of my wrist, the puck sails past the goalie’s glove, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thud.

“Yes!” I yell.

The crowd erupts, and I raise my stick in triumph.

One down. Who the hell knows how many to go.

I’ve got this.

Chest heaving, I skate around the edge of the rink, refusing to look at the crowded stands and who I know is watching.

When I almost reach Everett, he slows, letting me catch up to him.

“That was quick,” he says .

His hand hits my padded shoulder, and I grin back at him. “Play like it’s our last game, right?”

Reeves skates between us, whooping. “Fuck, yeah! And look at you, leading by example and shit.” He presses the handle of his stick to his chest. “O Captain! My Captain!”

“Stop celebrating!” Coach yells from the bench. “The game’s only getting started. Get back in position!”

He’s right. The game’s barely started, but fuck, we’re gonna play like it’s our last.

The next two periods are a blur, but Everett scores once, and the Bulldogs score twice after a fuckup by Cameron and a lucky shot by the Bulldogs’ center right before the buzzer, leaving us tied by the third period.

My muscles ache. Sweat pours down my face. And my mind races. As we skate back into position, I ignore the prickles along my spine and the mounting pressure. Before I can stop myself, my attention drifts to the stands for what feels like the thousandth time.

There he is. Shawn Burrows. His eyes are glued to the ice as Everett stands at the blue line. His posture is crouched and ready, waiting for the ref’s whistle to blow. He’s had a hell of a game. Seriously. I’m fucking impressed, even if it does contradict my own self-preservation. If Ev makes the team, he’s earned it, but I sure as shit am not going down without a fight.

Seconds later, the puck slips from the ref’s fingers, and this time, the Bulldogs steal possession and dart toward our goalie. The Bulldogs’ center attempts a wraparound, but our goalie makes a glove save, and one of my teammates rebounds it, opting for a dump and chase, sending the puck flying past the blue line. I catch the pass, but a hard check from a defender sends me sprawling onto the ice. The puck slips just out of reach when Reeves rushes after it and saves my ass. I scramble back to my feet, my skates cutting through the ice as Reeves chips the puck off the boards toward Everett when it’s intercepted.

“Fuck!” I yell.

As the seconds tick down on the clock, my breath comes in ragged gasps, and with a final burst of speed, I lunge forward, my stick meeting the puck with a satisfying crack. Sweat drips down my hairline, wetting the back of my neck as I push my body to the limit and race back to the goal, the crowd screaming at the tops of their lungs while the shot clock counts down. The defense closes in, but I deke left, then right, slipping past them.

“You got this, you got this, you got this,” I chant under my breath. With a powerful slap shot, I send the puck flying. It rockets past the goalie, and the red light flashes.

Three to two. We did it.

My teammates swarm me, their congratulations ringing in my ears.

We did it.

We. Fucking. Did. It.

So, why do I feel like shit?