Page 30

Chapter thirty

Alex

“T his is it,” James mutters beside me, bouncing on his skates. “Game 6 of the Conference finals against the Rangers. Time to show ‘em who owns the ice.”

“Fuck yes,” Connor says, smacking his stick once on the tunnel floor. “Let’s light them up and make ‘em regret they ever got this far.”

I don’t even crack a smile. I just roll my neck, feel the sweat start at my collar, and let the noise of the tunnel press in around me like armor.

We’re lined up shoulder to shoulder in our uniforms, each guy vibrating with that wired tension that only shows up in the playoffs. This is it—conference finals. This game is a must win or we’re out.

Right now, I can’t afford to think about Nina. But I do.

I told myself I’d block it out. Shut the door on it. Focus on the team, the mission, the win. But I can still smell her perfume from that last team session. Still feel the silence that followed it.

She’s still deciding or she’s letting me go . I don’t know which, and I hate how much I care.

The guys around me are cracking jokes, bouncing pucks off the tunnel wall, hyping each other up. James is fake-boxing Ethan. Parker’s saying a quiet prayer to himself.

I tap my stick against the concrete. One. Two. Breathe.

Then I feel it.

A touch. Light. Familiar.

She squeezes my shoulder from behind. A gentle press. Firm and fleeting.

Nina walks by like nothing happened. Just another part of staff doing their thing.

But for me? It’s a detonation.

Her touch grounds me and guts me at the same time.

I close my eyes. Let it ride through me. One more deep breath. One more nod to the guy next to me.

“Let’s fucking go,” I mutter.

Acers are down three games to two but now we have home ice advantage.

The horn blares.

We take the ice.

The crowd cheers the moment we skate out. Fans are on their feet, roaring. Flashing lights pulse to the music. Towels whirl in the upper decks. It’s deafening and exactly what I need.

The drop of the puck is a jolt to the system. Instantly, it’s war.

They come out hot. Fast. Physical. Their center wins the first draw and hurls it toward our net within seconds. I catch it clean but hard, stinging through my glove like a warning shot.

“Alright,” I mutter, flicking the puck toward the ref. “Let’s dance.”

The first period is chaos. End to end. Bodies crashing into boards. Sticks clacking like sabers. I stay low, locked in, every nerve tuned to the puck.

Midway through the period, they get a breakaway. I charge out, cut down the angle, and block it with my chest. Rebound trickles loose. I dive on it.

Whistle.

I shove myself up as the crowd chants my name.

James skates over and taps my helmet. “That’s what I’m talking about, Beast Mode.”

I don’t answer. I’m already replaying the next possible angle in my head.

The second period is worse. Their power play is relentless. We’re down a man because Ethan’s in the box for slashing. I face four shots in thirty seconds. Block. Glove. Pad. Chest.

Fourth shot goes top corner. I leap with my glove extended.

Caught. Snatched from midair.

The arena goes nuclear.

Even the opposing bench slaps their sticks.

Coach yells, but it’s background noise now. I’m moving on instinct.

Every slapshot is a chance to prove something. Every block is a reminder—I’m here and I matter.

When we get to the third, it’s still 0-0.

I skate in tight circles during the TV timeout, breathing through my mask.

Control what you can. Let go of what you can’t.

The mantra loops with my breath. Nina’s voice is in my head. Her calm. Her fire.

With six minutes left, Connor scores.

Bar down. Glorious. The crowd is now on their feet.

I don’t celebrate. Not yet. I lock in harder.

They come at us like hell unleashed.

Every shift. Every rebound. I slide, kick, snag, block.

Then: Final whistle.

1–0. Shutout. We just forced a Game 7 on home ice.

Everything we fought for, bled for, crawled back from—it’s all coming down to one more game in our barn.

I rip my helmet off as my teammates crash into me, screams echoing in my ears.

They mob me, tackling, roaring, slapping helmets and pads. Coach yells something triumphant in the mix, but I can’t hear it over my own pulse.

I find the glass and slam my fist against it once. Fans go wild.

In the middle of it all, I look up toward the box.

I don’t know why.

She’s not there.

But I look anyway.

I’m still sweating, high on adrenaline and victory when I head for the locker room. The music’s already blasting. We’re winners tonight.

Coach claps me on the back. “That’s the grit of a true champion, Chadwick.”

I grin, finally letting myself relax a fraction.

Sweaty jerseys half off. Guys laughing, chest bumping, dumping protein powder into shake bottles like confetti. Someone’s blasting AC/DC. Ethan’s already shirtless, trying to convince the rookie to let him Sharpie “WE’RE NOT DONE” on his back.

Coach Derek’s voice slices through the noise. “Bring it in!”

Everyone huddles up, still buzzing.

“That’s the grit I love to see from this team!” he roars, voice hoarse but proud. “That’s Acers fucking hockey!”

Cheers erupt.

Coach claps once, loud enough to cut through the buzz. “Alright, everyone get decent. Nina’s coming in any second.”

Within a few minutes, the door opens and in walks Nina, casual but composed in her black Acers pullover and jeans, her ponytail looped high and sharp like always. No clipboard. No towels. Just her presence and the instant shift in the energy when the guys notice her.

James smirks and calls out, “Well, well, look who timed her entrance like a pro. Two minutes earlier and you may have seen Mikey in a jock strap.”

The guys laugh and then get quiet.

Coach grins and nods toward her. “Come on, Doc, give the boys a few words. They’ll actually listen to you.”

She clears her throat, voice professional but warm. “That’s the mental strength we built all season. Proud of you guys. You've just earned yourselves Game 7. Congratulations.”

Coach slings an arm around her shoulder and grins. “She’s the unsung MVP, boys.”

More cheers. Someone yells, “Doc for president!”

She laughs and shakes her head, already backing toward the door. “Keep hydrating. You’ve got one more war to win.”

She meets my eyes.

Just for a second.

It’s a smile. Small. Real. But it doesn’t reach her eyes.

And she doesn’t come closer.

***

I get my gear together and tell myself I’m not doing what I know I’m about to do.

But I walk down the quiet hallway anyway.

Past the trainer’s room. Past the weight room. Toward the far end where the staff offices are tucked away.

Maybe she’s still here.

Maybe she’s waiting for me to say something first.

Maybe she’s hoping I’ll come find her.

I knock softly.

No answer.

I turn the knob.

The office is dark.

I step back and close the door quietly.

My hands are still damp. My pulse still thudding from the game.

The game was chaos. The win was clarity… but this?

This is confusion all over again. And I’m starting to hate how quiet it gets when she’s not around.