Page 23

The harsh buzz of my alarm pulled me from the deepest sleep I'd had in weeks. I blinked at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar pre-game anxiety to hit me like a freight train. Instead, a strange calm washed over me. Today was the championship—the culmination of years of training, the moment NHL scouts would be watching my every move, the pinnacle of my college hockey career—and yet I felt oddly at peace.

"You're up," Dylan's voice came from my doorway. He stood there, unusually subdued, a mug of coffee extended toward me. "Made it extra strong. Figured you'd need it."

I sat up, accepting the scalding mug. "Thanks, man."

"How are you feeling?" His question carried the weight of everything unsaid between us—the pressure, the expectations, the scouts, Mia.

"Surprisingly okay," I admitted. "Like, actually okay. Not just saying it."

Dylan studied me for a long moment before nodding. "Good. That's good." He hesitated. "Did things work out with Mia? Last night, I mean."

The memory of our conversation brought an involuntary smile to my face. "Not completely. But we talked. Really talked."

"And?"

“Nothing’s fixed, but it isn’t broken either.” I lifted the coffee to my lips, letting its bitter warmth clear the last of my fog. “I asked her to come to the game. Wearing my jersey.”

Dylan’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? That’s huge. I hope she shows up.”

“Me too,” I murmured.

The arena hummed with an energy I'd never felt before. Standing in the tunnel leading to the ice, I could feel the vibrations of stomping feet, the thunderous chants of Wolves echoing through the concrete. Coach Alvarez paced before us, his usual stoic demeanor replaced by an intensity that mirrored our own.

"Listen up," he called, and the pre-game chatter died instantly. We huddled around him, a mass of nervous energy and adrenaline. "I've coached for twenty-seven years. Never had a team like this one."

His voice caught, surprising me. Coach wasn't one for sentimentality.

"You boys have given everything. Left it all on the ice, practice after practice, game after game. Some of you played through injuries you shouldn't have." He glanced at Tyler, our goalie, who'd kept his sprained wrist secret for three games. "Some of you sacrificed your social lives, your sleep, your grades—though let's not tell the academic board about that last one."

A ripple of laughter broke the tension.

"Today isn't about proving anything to me. You've already done that. It's not about proving anything to those scouts up there, or your families, or that crowd." Coach's eyes found mine briefly. "It's about proving something to yourselves. That everything you've poured into this sport, into this team—it was worth it."

He paused, looking at each of us.

"Now get out there and play like you've got nothing to lose and everything to gain."

We erupted into hollers and cheers, thumping our sticks against the floor, the sound reverberating through the tunnel. As team captain, I was first in line to hit the ice. The roar that greeted us as we skated out for warm-ups was deafening, a wall of sound that physical hit me in the chest.

I circled the ice, loosening my muscles, trying to stay in that calm headspace I'd woken with. As we ran through our warm-up drills, I scanned the packed stands, searching for one specific face.

The press platform was elevated above the regular seating, giving photographers and journalists a clear view of the entire ice. My eyes locked onto a familiar figure, and my heart stuttered awkwardly in my chest.

Mia stood slightly apart from the other photographers, her camera already raised. But what caught my breath was the oversized jersey she wore over her usual jeans and boots—my away jersey, the white fabric stark against her dark hair. Even from a distance, I could make out the large number on the back that matched the one on my practice jersey.

She must have felt my stare, because she lowered her camera—and our eyes met across the rink. A secret smile curved the corners of her lips, a quiet promise meant only for me. In that single gesture—just a smile and a nod—my world snapped into focus. The roar of the crowd faded into white noise, the scouts’ watchful glances dissolved, and there was nothing left but the sheen of the ice, the thrum of my team beside me, and Mia’s unspoken faith shining above.

"Earth to Captain," Dylan nudged me as he skated past. "You planning to join us for warm-ups, or just make heart eyes at the press box all day?"

I snapped back to attention, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "Shut up."

His grin was knowing. "Hey, I get it. But maybe save the romantic gazing for after we win this thing?"

"After we win," I repeated, believing it for the first time. "Let's do this."

The first period was brutal. Our opponents came out blazing, testing our defense immediately with aggressive drives toward the net. Tyler was spectacular in goal, making seemingly impossible saves that kept us in the game. I was everywhere at once, directing plays, calling out positions, taking hits that would leave bruises for days.

The period ended scoreless, but not for lack of trying on either side. Back in the locker room, the tension was high but controlled. This is what we'd trained for.

"They're reading our standard plays," Coach said, scribbling on the whiteboard. "So we're switching it up. Ethan, I want you cutting through the center more. Their defensemen can't match your speed. Use that."

I nodded, mentally revising our strategy. When we took the ice for the second period, there was a renewed determination in our movements. Five minutes in, an opportunity presented itself. Their defenseman slipped, creating a brief opening. Dylan was there in an instant, and I fed him a perfect pass. The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net was almost drowned out by the explosive cheer from our fans.

"That's how it's done!" I shouted, crashing into Dylan in celebration as our teammates mobbed us.

We maintained the lead through the second period, but the tide turned in the third. Their star forward broke through our defense twice in quick succession, scoring goals that silenced our crowd and sent their fans into a frenzy. With seven minutes remaining on the clock, we were down 2-1.

The weight of it all suddenly pressed down on me—my father watching from the stands, the scouts taking notes, my teammates looking to me for leadership, three years of blood and sweat and sacrifice potentially ending in defeat. My chest tightened, vision narrowing dangerously.

Coach called a timeout, and we huddled at the bench, breathing hard.

"We've been in worse spots," he said calmly. "Remember that match last year? Down by three with five minutes left, and what happened?"

"We came back and won in overtime," Tyler replied, his goalie mask pushed up to reveal determined eyes.

"Exactly. This is nothing. We've got this." Coach turned to me. "Ethan, any thoughts?"

But my mind had drifted. Over Coach's shoulder, I could see the press platform. Mia was there, her camera pointed directly at me. Even from a distance, I could feel her studying me, capturing whatever was written on my face in this moment of pressure. Not judging, not expecting—just seeing. Really seeing me.

And suddenly, with startling clarity, I remembered why I played this game. Not for my father's approval, not for NHL contracts, not even for the championship itself. I played because of how it felt to be completely present in my body, the ice beneath my blades, the stick an extension of my arms, the puck a possibility waiting to be realized. I played because I loved it.

"Ethan?" Coach prompted.

I blinked, returning to the huddle. "Sorry. Yes. Their defensemen are getting tired. They're slowing down on transitions. If we push the pace, really push it, they'll start making mistakes."

Coach nodded. "That's what I'm seeing too."

"Tyler," I turned to our goalie. "You're keeping us in this. Just a few more key saves, okay?"

He nodded firmly.

"Dylan, I need you to be ready on my wing. We're going to create some chaos with quick passing."

The buzzer signaled the end of our timeout. As we skated back into position, I felt a strange lightness. Whatever happened in these final minutes, I would play my game—not my father's vision of it, not some performance for the scouts. My game.

The shift in mentality rippled through our play immediately. We became faster, more fluid, less predictable. With three minutes remaining, our persistence paid off. I threaded a nearly impossible pass through two defenders, finding Tyler in perfect position. The tying goal sent our crowd into a frenzy.

The final minute approached, the scoreboard showing 2-2. Overtime loomed as a possibility, but something inside me knew this game would end in regulation.

The faceoff was in our defensive zone. I won it cleanly, setting up our breakout. Dylan took the puck up the right wing while I accelerated through center ice. A defenseman moved to intercept him, leaving me an opening. Dylan saw it too and sent a perfect pass right to my tape.

Time seemed to slow as I received the puck. Two defenders converged on me, but they were a half-step too slow. I deked right, then left, finding myself with a clear lane to the goal. The goalie shifted, anticipating my movement.

In that crucial moment, I wasn't thinking about scouts or my father or even the championship. I was completely present, feeling the weight of the puck on my stick, calculating angles and possibilities. I faked a forehand shot, drawing the goalie to his right, then quickly shifted to my backhand, lifting the puck just as he realized his mistake.

The puck sailed into the upper corner of the net just as the buzzer sounded.

For a heartbeat, there was silence—that surreal pause as thousands of people processed what they'd just witnessed. Then the arena exploded. My teammates crashed into me from all directions, a tangle of limbs and sticks and euphoric shouts. I was lifted onto shoulders, the crowd's roar a physical presence surrounding us.

Through it all, through the chaos and noise and motion, my eyes sought the press platform. Mia stood, camera still raised, capturing the moment. Even from a distance, I could see her smile—wide, genuine, blindingly bright. That smile was everything.

The locker room was bedlam. Champagne sprayed in all directions, soaking everyone and everything. Teammates screamed themselves hoarse, hugging and laughing and crying without shame. Coach Alvarez moved through the crowd, embracing each player, his usual stern demeanor completely abandoned.

Several scouts approached me with congratulations and business cards, conversations to be continued. Their presence, which had weighed so heavily on me all season, now seemed almost incidental.

"Ethan." My father's voice cut through the celebration as he worked his way through the crowd. Richard had somehow gained access to the locker room, his face flushed with a mixture of excitement and what appeared to be genuine pride—an expression I'd rarely seen directed at me.

"Dad." I accepted his fierce hug, bracing for the inevitable critique that would follow the congratulations.

"That was—" He pulled back, gripping my shoulders, eyes bright. "That was brilliant, son. Absolutely brilliant. The winning goal, the way you set up that tying shot, your leadership on the ice..." His voice swelled with emotion. "I couldn't be prouder."

For a moment, I just stared at him, waiting for the "but" that always followed his praise. The observation about how I'd hesitated on that backhand pass in the second period, or how I could have been more aggressive on the penalty kill.

And it came—just a flicker across his face, the beginning of an ingrained critical habit. But then something shifted in his expression. He caught himself, looking at my face, and deliberately changed course.

"You were magnificent out there," he said firmly. "Everything I always knew you could be."

The simple, unqualified praise nearly undid me. "Thanks, Dad. That...that means a lot."

We were interrupted by Coach Alvarez, who clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Hell of a game, Ethan. Hell of a season." He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "There are scouts, media, and family all waiting for you outside." A slight smile crossed his face. "But there might be someone specific you'd want to see first."

He inclined his head toward a side door, his expression knowing. "Maybe take a minute before the circus really begins."

Understanding dawned, and gratitude washed through me. I slipped away from the celebration, through the indicated door, and into a quiet service hallway.

And there she was—Mia, still in my jersey, her camera hanging around her neck. She stood awkwardly, as if unsure of her welcome in this space. For a heartbeat, we simply looked at each other across the empty hallway.

Then I closed the distance between us in three long strides, lifting her in a spinning hug before setting her down gently. Her surprised laugh was the sweetest sound I'd heard all day.

"You were amazing," she said, eyes bright with excitement. "Absolutely amazing. I got the perfect shot of your goal—your face when the puck went in—it was just..." She trailed off, shaking her head in wordless appreciation.

"You wore my jersey," I said quietly, reaching out to touch the fabric draped over her shoulder.

She glanced down, a slight flush coloring her cheeks. "I did. It helped, actually. Reminded me what matters."

"What matters?" I echoed, stepping closer.

"You," she said simply. "Not the hockey star, not the guy with NHL prospects. Just you."

The world narrowed to just the two of us, standing close in the empty hallway. My heart hammered against my ribs, harder than it had during any moment of the game.

"Mia," I began, but she surprised me by rising on her tiptoes and pressing her lips to mine—not a performance, not for anyone watching, just a real kiss born of real feelings.

When we broke apart, I rested my forehead against hers, unwilling to put any more distance between us than absolutely necessary. "I want to do this for real," I whispered. "No arrangement, no pretending. Just us."

Her smile was answer enough, but she nodded and whispered back, "Just us."

"I love you," she said, the words both terrifying and perfect. "I didn't plan to, but I do."

My heart expanded impossibly in my chest. "I love you too. Probably since you stepped onto my ice and nearly killed us both."

"I did not nearly kill—" she began indignantly, but I silenced her with another kiss, longer and deeper than the first, pouring everything I couldn't yet articulate into the connection between us.

We broke apart at the sound of approaching voices—reality intruding on our private moment.

"Ready to face your public, MVP?" Mia asked, a teasing light in her eyes.