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Chapter twenty-six

Alex

T he roar of the crowd hits me like a wave the second we walk out of the tunnel.

The sound’s deafening—cheers, horns, the pulse of our entrance track vibrating through the ice under my skates.

This game matters.

It’s not just about the win. It’s round one of the playoffs. It’s about pride. Momentum. Making a statement. We’re not sneaking in—we’re here to dominate.

Warmups are fast and focused. The guys are dialed in. I make a few glove saves just to feel the puck, tracking it clean. Before we line up for the National Anthem, Coach calls us in at the bench, his voice calm but loaded with intent.

"Bring it in," Coach Stephens says, and we form a half-circle, eyes locked.

"We’ve been building toward this all season. Through the noise, the injuries, the media circus, and the pressure. You’ve fought every step. Now it’s time to show them who we are."

He looks each of us in the eye, slow and deliberate.

"This game—this series—it won’t define who you are forever. But it will show everyone watching what you’re made of. And I’d bet on your heart over theirs every damn time."

A few nods ripple through the group. James elbows Ethan. Ethan rolls his neck like he’s ready to throw hands.

"Play smart. Play fierce. And remember, play for the guy next to you. That’s how we win."

"Let’s go," Parker says, loud.

"No mercy," I add, thumping my stick.

The horn sounds. We break. We skate to the line.

When the anthem ends, I lock eyes with James. He slaps my pads.

"Showtime," he says.

Puck drops.

The first period is crystal clear.

I see everything. Every pass. Every angle. Every loose puck. I’m anticipating two plays ahead. My body’s electric but controlled, every save is with purpose. The glove’s hot tonight—snatching a wrister out of midair like I was born doing it.

The fans go wild. They’re behind us full throttle.

But every time I reset between whistles, I glance toward her seat and she's there, watching intently. And every time I see her, something inside me steadies, like all the noise and pressure compress into a single point of focus—her. It’s not just calming, it’s grounding. Knowing she’s there, believing in me, makes every save feel like it matters more. Makes me want to be the guy she sees when, she looks at me that way. Fierce. Unshakable. Worthy.

Second period hits harder. Our D tightens. Opponents start crashing the net, trying to rattle me. I block a low shot with my pad and then another. Scramble save. Players chirping. One even tries to sneak a jab under my blocker.

I don’t bite.

Nina’s watching.

I keep it cool. Keep it clean. We’re up 2-0 now. The guys are pumped. I hear Connor yelling encouragement like a general. I hear Ethan laugh after checking someone clean.

In the locker room during second intermission, the energy is like bottled fire. Sweat steams off our bodies, gear half-hung as we breathe, hydrate, and reset. Coach walks in with a stare sharp enough to cut through steel.

“Alright,” Coach Stephens says, voice firm, low. “Twenty minutes. That’s all that’s left between you and a statement. You’ve earned this lead, but earning a win? That takes more.”

James is pacing near the stalls, stick bouncing between his palms.

“We close the door,” he says. “They don’t get a breath.”

“Damn right,” Connor adds. “They’re gonna regret stepping on our ice.”

Coach nods. “Exactly. Stay aggressive, but don’t get sloppy. You see them pressing? Let them. Then punish ‘em. Alex,” he looks at me,“you’re in the zone. Stay there.”

I nod once. “They’re not getting one past me.”

Ethan throws a towel across the room. “Let’s break their spirits, boys. Break ‘em and send ‘em home early.”

“Hey,” Parker says with a grin, “just don’t lose it and go full wrecking ball on the boards again. My ribs are still recovering from last time. I don't need a retaliation hit like that again.”

Laughter erupts, quick and sharp. It cuts the tension just enough to breathe.

Coach finishes, quieter now. “Finish what you started. No mercy.”

Sticks slap the floor. Gloves bang on stalls. We rise.

Third period.

This is where legends are made.

I’m locked in.

They fire twenty-two shots this period. Twenty-two. A few off deflections. One off a brutal rebound. I get a toe on a breakaway with less than four minutes left. Crowd’s losing their minds. Coach is pacing. Bench is on edge.

I don’t hear any of it.

All I hear is my breathing.

All I see is her in my mind.

Final minute. They pull their goalie.

Empty net. Six attackers. Bodies everywhere.

Shot. Blocked.

Another. Deflected.

One last one with four seconds left—bar down, or would’ve been. My glove flashes and snatches it clean.

The horn blares.

Game over.

Shutout.

The bench clears like we just won the Cup. They pile into me, shouting, helmets knocking, gloves slapping.

“Shutout king!” James screams.

“Stonewall!” Ethan howls.

Even Coach looks proud as hell, nodding from the bench before getting swarmed by the assistants.

But I’m not celebrating. Not really.

I’m scanning. Through the chaos. The lights. The confetti cannons firing for fan effect.

I’m looking for her.

I spot her near the tunnel just off to the side, half-shadowed. Waiting.

I peel away from the guys as they head to the locker room.

I don’t even take my helmet off until I reach her.

She’s just watching me. No smile. No tears. Just... present.

“Hey,” I say, my voice quieter than I expect.

She lifts her chin slightly. “Hey, great game!”

I pull off my blocker and glove. My hands are still shaking a little, buzzed from the rush. I tuck them under my arm.

“You said to play like I owned the ice.”

“You did.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Not just tonight. This whole season.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

When she does, her voice is soft. “You were always capable of that. You just didn’t believe it yet.”

I blink. That lands deeper than any goal or stat line ever has.

I let out a breath, trying to hold onto the ground beneath me. “Hey, did you see that glove save in the third? The one where I went full stretch left and snagged it before it hit the top corner?”

Her eyes soften, and a tiny smile breaks through. “The one where half the crowd gasped in unison? Yeah, I saw it.”

“Be honest,” I say, nudging her gently. “That was sexy as hell.”

She laughs, and the sound feels like a victory all its own. “Okay, yeah. That one nearly made me forgive you for that less than graceful rebound you had in the second, where their player was literally on top of you.”

“I kept it out, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did,” she says, smirking, giving me a high five.

“Still counts,” I murmur, grinning. “Though, between us, I’d rather it was you on top of me, not their left winger.”

She shakes her head, but her gaze lingers. “Careful, Chadwick. You keep pulling off saves like that, and I might start imagining myself on top of you, though with a lot less padding and far fewer witnesses.”

I step closer. I can feel my pulse at the base of my throat. I want to say something else—something big—but before I can...

She pulls me into the empty tunnel and kisses me.

Not a brush. Not a teasing flirt.

A real kiss.

Her hands press to my shoulders. My gear’s still on but I feel her anyway—heat, intention, emotion. It steals my breath. My knees nearly buckle. The crowd noise vanishes. All I know is her.

Then, she pulls back.

I’m stunned. Breathless. Heart thudding against my chest like it’s trying to break free.

“Nina.”

She takes a step back.

Her hands drop. Her mouth curves into something that’s not quite a smile.

“Congratulations, Alex,” she says, barely above a whisper.

And then she walks away and leaves me standing there like someone just took the ground out from under me.

She kissed me like a beginning.

And walked away like an ending.

And I didn’t know which one I was supposed to believe.

I’d just had the best game of my career.

And somehow, I never felt more unsure of what comes next.