There were three minutes left in the third period and the ice was a mess of sticks and skates and adrenaline as both teams hovered in the centre of the rink, the puck traded back and forth too often to stay at either end of the rink for too long. Emma wished that the other team could hold onto the puck long enough to fire a goal at her net, waste the dwindling seconds in the 2-1 game setting up the shot, just so she could shut it out like she had been all night and cement this win - and a spot in the playoffs - for her team.

They had started the season with no wins to their name but something had clicked in that first month and they had been steadily climbing through the ranks to get to this game. In all the years Emma had been playing she had never been on a team close to the playoffs but now that she was...

Yes, it was an honour to even make it this far, but despite being her first time on the cusp of the playoffs she found that the sheer possibility of winning was a taste she couldn't get out of her mouth. She was still and silent as she watched the scuffle steadily seeping over the blue line and ever-closer to her, eyes tracking the puck as it bounced between teams until finally the opposing centre caught it in the curve of her stick, and Emma knew it was coming. Their opponents were good, and the girl coming down the ice fast and hard with the puck was one of their best.

But Emma was better.

From her spot steady and solid in the crease, she saw the tilt of the other girl's chin as she looked up to the top left corner of the net, the way her right shoulder pulled slightly back in preparation for the shot she hadn't started yet, the way she wasn't coming at the net quiet as aggressively as she had been a moment before in preparation for the stop she had to make.

The puck came in fast, and the line was perfect - straight and true and with enough force behind it to punch the net hard if it got past her - but Emma's had been in place the moment the puck left the ice and even though it only took a fraction of a second to make its journey, there was never a chance that it would land anywhere other than in the pocket of her glove.

There were thirty seconds left but there wasn't going to be another chance to sink a shot in goal - Emma wasn't going to let there be - and though the last half-minute played out as intensely as the rest of the game had, Emma could see the smiles that were overflowing from her team's faces.

When the buzzer sounded, there was only the space of a breath before Emma's team collided in their end of the rink, gloves and helmets and padding crushed together in a knot of arms reaching for arms and incredulous laughter because they had finally done it. Playoffs.

After a triumphant return to the changeroom and perhaps one too many refrains of off-key We Are The Champions considering they had a long way to go before they won the whole thing, Emma trudged down the dim hall of the arena with her hockey bag hitting her in the backs of the knees and her still-sweaty ponytail tangling around the strap slung over her shoulder. She was bone-tired in a way she only ever was after especially good games, but there was still a buzz of euphoria making her fingers tingle and her lips spread in a smile.

Neal was waiting for her in the parking lot, leaning against the yellow Bug by the back door like he always was after her games. She hadn't been sure if he had been able to make it to the actual game or not, but when he saw her his smile stretched wide and triumphant and she knew. Then her bag slid heavily to the ground as he caught her in his arms, and she pulled him into a kiss that was slightly too enthusiastic and slightly too rough but she didn't care because the win was still fresh and the exhaustion fell away at the prospect of a victory dinner and whatever came after.

"Pasta." She said when she pulled away for a breath, tilting her head up to look into his eyes that sparkled with pride - pride for something she had done. "I want lots of pasta because I am starving."

"You earned all the pasta in Italy after tonight." He laughed, the sound light and airy, and then gathered her close again to murmur, "God, that was a beautiful save, Em."

"You're just saying that because it's me." She muttered with a smile, shoving him away playfully and hoisting her bag off the ground. He caught her around the waist for a brief moment as she was wrestling the back into the narrow back seat of the Bug, and pressed a kiss to the back of her neck before circling around to the driver's side.

"I'm saying that because it's true." He said. She knew he was telling the truth about it - Neal had played right up until he aged out of the youth leagues, and now he was playing defense at the collegiate level, hoping for something more. A compliment from him, when it came to hockey, never meant nothing. "How's Luigi's sound for dinner? Best spaghetti in town."

"Luigi's sounds great." She swung into the passenger seat and leaned back with a happy sigh.

"Then that's the plan, champion." She could hear his smile in his voice, even as the growl of the car drowned him out. "I just have to make one quick stop first."

It was almost funny, Emma thought, the turn this night had taken.

She knew that Neal didn't come by all of his money honestly - she didn't, either. Never mind the collegiate level - even Midget hockey cost more than either of them could ever afford. So it wasn't a surprise when his "quick stop" turned out to be a felon's errand - but maybe she should have protested a bit more when he asked her to pick up his case of stolen watches from the train station.

As the lights from the police cruiser washed over her in shades of red and blue, and her eyes skimmed over the empty parking lot where Neal had been only moments ago, she thought that there were probably a lot of choices she should have made differently.

All through processing, all through endless questions that she couldn't, and wouldn't, answer - Whose watches are these? Mine. Is there anyone you want us to call? No. - she counted it a blessing that Neal had taken her hockey bag when he had abandoned her. Criminals didn't get happy endings, and as she settled onto the thin mattress in a cell made of cold cinderblock, she filed hockey deep into the list of dreams that would never come true.

In her office in Boston ten years later, the low hum of sports highlights on the radio in the background - First game of the regular season will be played tonight, and aren't you folks excited? - still stung, but not as much. She was used to disappointment, and what resigned acceptance didn't take away, time muted.

The veneer at the corner of her desk was peeling away, and as she toed at it absently she reasoned that the reason the bail bonds business was so slow was probably because the state of this office didn't scream professionalism and competence. It was cruelly ironic, really, because she couldn't do a thing about the office until she got some business.

The end of that thought was cut off by the swell of street noise as the door opened, and the man who came in seemed almost too convenient - fate would make this the time to start smiling on her, though one customer just as she was wishing for one was a pale consolation for all the dreams she had once had and lost.

As customers went, though, they could have been worse than the dark haired man with his leather jacket and Bruins hat, polite enough to try and shut her warped door properly before coming over.

"Just kick it at the bottom - it sticks." she said to his back, a small smile playing about her lips as he nudged it tentatively before finally giving it a solid kick that set it firmly shut. "First game of the season tonight, you know."

"What?"

Emma cut her gaze to the radio though it wouldn't serve as an explanation for him, and tapped her temple as she brought her eyes back around. "Your ha-"

She met his eyes before her sentence was truly finished, but she let the words trail off because now that she got a good look at him she knew exactly who he was - who he was, where he got that hat, and that he probably knew better than she did that the first game of the season was tonight.

He was famous in the hockey world for his grace with a puck and a streak of temper that won games and landed him on the bench in equal measure, but it was what made him famous outside of the hockey world that was in evidence now - slightly shaggy dark hair, a dusting of stubble along a sharp jaw, and eyes so blue they almost weren't real. This was Killian Jones, who in approximately six hours would be playing left wing on Emma's favourite team, and why the hell was he here?

"I hadn't realized." He said, his easy lie bringing her back into herself, and sank down in the chair opposite her desk. "I'm looking for some help and I think this is the right place."

"What kind of help?" She asked, shaking off her surprise. Business was business, even if he was famous in a world she thought she had left far behind her.

"Someone has taken something of mine, and I'd like you to find something on him - something discrete, but something effective."

"You want to blackmail someone, is what you're saying." She said flatly.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She leaned forward in her chair, spreading a hand flat on the desk and stifling an incredulous smile. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that there are venues other than blackmail for getting results - people you can talk to, authorities who can help..."

"I think you missed the part about discretion." He pulled off the hat and ran a hand through his mess of hair, his eyes tracing the lines of the ceiling tiles for a moment as if searching for an answer. "I need...I need all of this to happen behind the scenes. Authorities cause a commotion, and people I can talk to..." He flashed her a half-smile, and there was something sardonic about the line of it that said there was so much more here than she knew about. "We're talking right now, but if that is a mistake on my part please let me know and I'll go elsewhere."

"Listen, Mr..." She almost said his name but caught herself at the last moment, letting the silence hang until he said,

"I'd rather wait until we've figured out whether or not you can do what I'm asking, if it's all the same to you."

"Fine." She sighed. "Listen. I get discretion - I really do - but blackmail is a risky business and I think you know what you're getting yourself into."

"If there were another option, I'd take it." His eyes suddenly got very intense and she realized then that he knew exactly what he was getting into - and he was very much looking forward to it. "But I know this man and I know what will work, and what I need from you is a yes or no answer and I'll be on my way. Please." He sat back as he tacked the pleasantry on the end, but there was no forgetting the drive that had been in that gaze - and the desperation behind it that she knew she wasn't meant to have seen.

"Alright." Emma spread her hands wide on the desk in a subtle surrender. "What you want is a private investigator, which I'm not - but I know a few and I can give you their cards, if you want. That's the best I can do."

"I've tried PI's." He said, grabbing her hand as it reached for the wooden box of business cards on the corner of the desk. His grip was gentle but still firm, and she caught his eyes again, a bare plea there. "None of them were right. I know that this isn't what bail bondspeople usually do but you find people, right?" She just nodded. "And to find people you have to know at least a little bit about them. This place is small and out of the way and it's perfect, and I think you could do this better than anyone, if you wanted to. So please."

It was such an earnest speech, and there was such a simple desperation in his eyes that even though she knew there were dozens of bail bonds offices in this city that he could have chosen, she was suddenly glad it was this one.

She needed the business, if nothing else.

"Alright." She said, drawing her hand back. His eyes widened, the impossible blue almost brighter with the flash of his shocked smile.

"You're sure?"

"I wouldn't have said it if I wasn't." She stood to dig in the top drawer of the filing cabinet behind her, producing a form and sliding it across the desk when she turned back around. He had stood with her, and there was something about the way that leather jacket hung from his broad shoulders as he leaned his hip against the edge of her desk... "Take this home, fill it out, and come back on Friday. Then we'll talk specifics."

"What is it?"

"Name, social security, credit card...standard stuff." She levelled a gaze at him, and even though most of his past was public thanks to his status, she knew everyone had secrets. "I'll run your name with a friend of mind in the police department, and if anything comes up, the deal's off. I don't help criminals find criminals. Got it?"

"Yes ma'am." He took the form with a goofy smile on his face - maybe it was relief or maybe he was just laughing at her - and stuck out his other hand to shake. "I look forward to working with you."

"Thanks." She shook it back, and arched an eyebrow at him. "And I think I was promised a name if I said yes."

"That you were." He dropped her hand and scooped his hat up from the seat of the chair, settling it on his head and looking up at her through his lashes in what she was sure he knew was a slightly theatrical fashion. "Killian Jones."

"I'm Emma."

"I believe I gave you both my first and last name." He said, raising an eyebrow of his own.

"Emma Swan." She sat back down in her chair and he headed towards the door. Just as he opened it, he tipped the brim of his hat towards her and even though it was a baseball cap it looked suddenly very classy on him.

"Nice to meet you, Emma Swan." He exited onto the street, the hum of cars and wind enveloping him, and as the door swung shut she could just make out the words, "See you Friday."