Page 31

Chapter 30

Zach

The Xcel Energy Center buzzes with pre-game energy, the hum of the crowd a tangible force even during warmups. My skates bite into the fresh ice as I take another lap, every muscle loose and ready. The energy tonight is different, more electric.

Because we're not just playing for the championship.

We're defending it.

Last year's banner hangs in the rafters back home, but that victory feels like a lifetime ago. My fingers flex around my stick, processing what it means to end my college career. Win or lose, these are my final moments in a Titans jersey.

Coach Nieminen stands at the bench, his presence commanding even from here as he talks with Coach Harper. The pressure of going for back-to-back championships doesn't show on either of their faces.

I send a puck sailing toward Viktor, who catches it with his usual dramatic flair. Showoff. But his save percentage this season has been insane. He’s earned the right to be cocky. The University of Michigan won't find any easy goals tonight.

My gaze drifts to the stands, scanning the familiar faces. Merci’s sitting between our family and friends. He looks perfect in the custom-cropped black sweatshirt with my number—#27—in gold across the back and sleeves, the hem riding high enough to reveal the toned muscle of his abs. Eli's friend Sasha did good work.

Speaking of Eli, he's here too. With Alexei. The Devils missing playoffs must sting, but having him in attendance feels right. Last year, he was on the ice with us when we won. Now he watches from the stands as we try to do it again.

My father claps politely every so often, while Evelyn shoots Merci a do-I-really-have-to-sit-next-to-you look every time he screams loud enough to make the people around him flinch.

In front of them, Killian Blackwell leans back in his seat, casually flipping off some Michigan fans who dared to taunt Jackson. My friend blows his boyfriend a kiss as he skates past, living for the drama like always.

“Knight!” Coach Nieminen’s voice booms from the bench, snapping me back into focus. “Get your head in the game.”

I nod and skate to the blue line where Henneman waits for passing drills. My grip on the stick feels solid. Tommy Harper's brutal training sessions are finally paying off. He traveled back home to England last week.

Too bad I can’t take him with me to Ottawa.

The buzzer signals the end of warmups and we gather around the bench where Coach Nieminen's voice rises above the crowd. "This is your moment, boys. Michigan's fast, but we're faster. They're skilled, but we're smarter. They want our title. So, show them why we're the reigning champions."

Coach Harper catches my eye. "Knight, you and Henneman are starting on defense. Their top line likes to cycle low, so keep them contained. Force them wide."

I nod, prepared to give it my all and hold nothing back.

This isn't just about defending our title. It's my last game in this jersey. Every shift counts.

The tension crackles as we line up for the opening faceoff. Jackson stands ready at center ice, his usual cockiness replaced by pure focus. Michigan wins possession, but their center telegraphs his pass through the neutral zone. I bump him off the puck, then pass it to Henneman, who skates it out of our zone.

The first five minutes are pure adrenaline, neither team giving an inch. Viktor makes two spectacular saves in quick succession, one with his blocker and another kicking out his right pad just in time. Michigan's forwards test our defense relentlessly, but we hold.

Coach Nieminen's voice carries from the bench. "Settle down. Play our game."

When Michigan’s right wing tries splitting the defense, Henneman delivers a clean hit that sends the player into the boards. The crowd roars as I clear the loose puck.

I tap my teammate’s calf with my stick as we skate toward the offensive zone. "Nice hit. Guy's gonna feel that tomorrow."

A few shifts later, Connor threads a perfect pass to Jackson who buries it top shelf. The crowd erupts. One step closer to our second title. But Michigan answers back almost immediately, capitalizing on a turnover. Their forward snipes one top corner before Viktor can get across.

And just like that, we're tied.

Second period is an all-out battle. Michigan's defense tightens up, clogging the neutral zone. Coach Harper finds weaknesses in their system and adjusts our strategy. "They're overcommitting to the strong side. Knight, look for the weak side defense jumping into the play. Henneman, be ready to cover."

Midway through the third, we're still tied when I read their forward's body language as he tries to carry it in. I step up to intercept. The puck finds my stick at the blue line, and everything slows for a split second. I see an opening, wind up, and fire.

The puck slices through the air, finding the top corner over the goalie's glove.

"Knight with the goal!" The announcer's voice booms through the arena. "That puts the defending champions up by one."

My teammates swarm me as we skate to the bench, gloved hands smacking my back and helmet. Over Jackson's shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Merci jumping, his crop top riding up as he screams.

The final minutes are chaotic. Michigan pulls their goalie, throwing everything at us.

"Keep them to the outside!" Coach Nieminen's voice carries over the crowd. "No chances in the slot!"

A shot from the point deflects off a body in front. Viktor somehow tracks it through traffic, kicking out his pad. The rebound bounces dangerously, but Henneman clears it down the ice.

"One minute!" Someone yells from the bench.

Michigan's top line stays out, desperate to score and force overtime. Their center wins the faceoff clean, sending it back to their defenseman, who winds up for a one-timer. I drop to one knee, the puck hitting me square in the shin pad. The pain registers distantly—more data than sensation .

"Clear it!" Viktor screams.

Jackson sends it down the length of the ice. Icing, but it burns precious seconds off the clock. Forty-five seconds left of my college career.

Another faceoff in our zone. This time, Connor wins possession and passes it back to me. I send it around the boards where Henneman battles their forward.

Twenty seconds.

The puck bounces to Michigan’s center in the slot. A golden chance. Viktor pushes across, stacking the pads. The save of his fucking life.

“Ten seconds!” Coach Nieminen shouts, his voice barely audible.

I dive to block a shot, the puck ricocheting off my stick and into the corner. Henneman ties it up once again as the clock ticks down.

Three.

Two.

One.

The buzzer sounds and the arena explodes.

Back-to-back champions.

The ice becomes a blur of bodies, my teammates piling onto Viktor in a massive dogpile. I skate to the corner, chest heaving, trying to process everything. Four years of memories in this jersey. Two championships. One perfect ending .

The weight of it all hits at once.

Jackson skates over, throwing an arm around my shoulders. "Gonna miss this next year."

"Yeah."

Viktor and Connor still have another year with the Titans. But for Jackson and I . . . this chapter's over. We might play together again someday but it won't be like this. Never this exact combination of people.

And in a few months, I'll be in Ottawa, fighting for an NHL roster spot. It should feel terrifying knowing I'll be hiding my limitations, pushing my body harder than ever.

But looking at Merci, my teammates who've become family, and my actual family in the stands, something settles in my chest.

Hockey has been my entire world, my only path forward. But for the first time, it doesn't feel like my only lifeline.

I have options. Support. People who see past the damage to who I am.

I look at Merci in the stands as we line up for the handshake line. He’s on his feet, cheering like a maniac, his hands cupped around his mouth as he screams something I can’t hear, face lit up with pure joy.

He's why I know I'll be okay, no matter what comes next.

And that's the greatest victory of all.