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He walks across to where our captain is sitting, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped before him. Jon looks emotional, and when Coach speaks, I hear that emotion echoing in his voice. “You’re not just a group of incredibly talented men, you’re also my men. I’ve worked with some of you for a few short months and with others for years. But let me tell you this: I’ve never met a finer man or player than this guy right here.” Coach leans forward and claps Jon on the shoulder. “I’ve seen this guy in his best and worst moments. But nothing will prepare me for tonight when the final buzzer goes, and we close out on one of the finest careers I’ve ever witnessed.”

Our captain draws in a deep breath to center himself and comes to a stand. “We will clinch the W tonight because we owe it to ourselves. Months of prep and, in some cases, yearsof working and playing together all come down to this—three twenty-minute periods where we leave it all out there on the ice. Nothing is spared, no one is left behind, and everyone puts in their maximum shift. We don’t accept anything other than the W tonight, and we give our fans exactly what they deserve—a night to remember.”

“Fucking right!” Jessie jumps to his feet and fists the air.

Coach Burrows nods slowly and walks towards the door. “I think that’s all that needs to be said. But I will say this, I’m proud of each and every one of you. And tonight, I want to celebrate with you in the bar. Now crush ‘em!”

He leaves to a roar that reverberates off the walls.

And right here, the last of my nerves leaves my body to be replaced entirely by a thrumming need to secure my boys the shutout.

Sweat drips down my forehead,stinging my eyes.

This game is like no other. The Blades weren’t going down without a fight, but neither were we. I’m not on for my shutout, having leaked two goals already, but as we reach the final few minutes in the third, we’re a goal up, and the pressure crushes me as their center comes crashing down the ice.

There’s no way Zach will catch up to him since he was left back at center ice.

Focus, Jensen.

It's effectively one-on-one, and if we concede now, we lose our slender three-two lead, opening the game right back up.

In reality, everything’s happening so fast in front of me, but in my head, Robinson, the Blades’ Center, is skating in slowmotion. I’ve watched hours of game tape, examining his favored moves before he frequently sinks the puck.

He likes to go top left but tells you he’s going right. I know his backhand might be his weaker side, but he likes to double-bluff goalies.

Not this time, though; he does exactly what I expected and whips the puck to the top left corner in a Crosby-like move. I’m ready, glove outstretched, prepared to catch it and put this turnover to an end along with their Stanley Cup dreams.

The puck rockets into my glove with a thud as the crowd explodes.

There’s all of thirty seconds left on the clock, barely enough time to restart play let alone draw level.

Jon skates over, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Fucking yes!”

“Never in doubt,” I reply, my voice as shaky as my knees. I was in total doubt. But they don’t need to know that. No one needs to know what goes on in my head.

That’s a one-way ticket to doing time for thought crimes.

Speaking of. I turn to face my goal and reset myself for the final play, but I can’t help looking up at our family box. Mom, Dad, and my sister, Hollie, are here. But that’s not who I’m looking for; Hollie and my mom have black hair, not blonde.

Next to them is a brunette and a redhead, Felicity and Luna. But they’re not her.

Jon said she’d be here. But I’ve yet to catch a glimpse. And I’ve been looking every goddamn minute.

The biggest game of your life, Jensen, and you’re still obsessing over the woman who hates your guts.

Pathetic.

The game restarts, but it’s all over as the home crowd counts down the final ten seconds of play.

Cup winners, again.

In true Seattle fashion, rubber fish rain down onto the ice, making it nearly impossible to skate anywhere. I’ve never seen this many before, and I’ve never heard the crowd so loud my eardrums vibrate with the intensity.

But I need to get to him.

To Jon.

Through the sea of players making their way to him, I watch as he crouches down at center ice and pulls off his left glove.