SYMPATHY FOR THE DEVIL, J.HUGHES

SIXTY ONE

JACK'S POV

I bend down, ready to take my position. Glancing across, I spot Cole, and yeah, he's grinning like a kid. I can't help but smirk. That's the thing about playing your best buddy—it's always fun, but man, it doesn't change shit. The goal's the same: I want to win. And if he's hoping for a different outcome, well, better luck next time.

The puck drops, and here we go again. Last period, and honestly, we're on fire. Probably one of our best games ever. We're not just skating—we're flying out there, man. Every pass is clean, every move's tight. It's like we're all linked up, some kinda freaky hockey hive mind. Nobody's talking much, but we don't need to. We're reading each other perfectly, throwing pucks behind the back like it's no big deal.

Earlier, we hit the locker room, did the whole interview bit. Not too painful, actually—just the usual "how's the game going, what's the strategy" crap. After that, it was right back to the grind, finishing this damn game like we started it—strong.

We're up 4-1. No surprises there. Happens a lot when we're up against the Habs. They try, they really do, but come on—it's like playing with kids out here sometimes. They can't keep up with us when we're in this zone. At this point, we're just making it look easy.

My legs are feeling good, lungs are burning in that satisfying way, like I've got a few more gears to hit if I need 'em. I see Bratt cutting up the ice, ready for the pass. He's got that look like, "Feed me the puck and we're making magic happen." And that's the thing, man—on nights like this, it's like we can see the future. Everything just clicks.

Habs are scrambling now, chasing after us, trying to get something going. You can see it in their eyes—they're desperate. Cole's still grinning, though. Cocky bastard always thinks he's got a shot, even when it's 4-1. Gotta respect it, honestly.

But nah, man, this game's ours. No question about it.

I skate back to the bench for a breather, tapping sticks with the boys on my way. Luke's on the ice now, back where he belongs on the first line. Man, he had a rough few weeks. Coach even bumped him down to the fourth line for a bit. Dude was struggling, no question, but I've gotta say, tonight? This game is his. He's skating like he's got something to prove, and he's owning it.

I glance up at the stands for a second, and there she is—Morgan. My girl. She's got that look on her face, the one where she's not trying to scream too loud but you know she's losing it inside. She's here for every game, always in the same seat. I don't think she knows this yet, but I'm gonna marry her. Like, no bullshit. That's my endgame. I've got it all planned out. But, I've got a game to win first.

"Yo, you see Luke out there?" Bratt nudges me, catching my attention as I take a sip from my water bottle. "Kid's skating like he's on some kinda redemption arc."

"Damn right," I say, grinning. "Kid's locked in. Bout time, too."

The puck drops, and Luke's on it. He moves so fast you'd miss it if you blinked. Habs defense is scrambling, but Luke's weaving through them like they're standing still. I'm watching from the bench, but even from here, I can see it happening before it does—Luke's winding up for a shot.

And bam—he rips it top shelf. Goalie didn't even see it coming. Crowd goes absolutely nuts, and we're all on our feet at the bench, losing our minds.

"Holy shit, that's my brother!" I shout, practically yanking the guys around me by the collar. The boys jump up, sticks clanking against the boards, losing their cool as Luke skates past. He's fired up, arms up in the air, and the whole arena is shaking with that roar. It's electric.