Page 32

Chapter thirty-two

Alex

C onnor tosses a piece of toast across the table and Mikey dodges it like a goalie in a shootout.

"You trying to feed me or assassinate me, man?" Mikey deadpans.

Dillon snorts into his coffee. "If it was an assassination attempt, that aim was pathetic. My niece has better hand-eye coordination."

"Your niece is a gymnast, bro," Connor says. "That’s not even a fair comparison."

James raises a brow, lifting his water bottle. "Just saying, if we lose tonight, it’s definitely because Dillon jinxed us with his weird toast voodoo."

"I didn’t realize toast had mystical powers," I mutter, mostly to myself.

"Everything has mystical powers when you’re on a winning streak," James says solemnly. "That’s locker room law."

The guys laugh. The mood is light. It should be contagious.

The eggs on my plate are cold. So is my smoothie. The spoon in my hand might as well be a rock.

I sit in the Acers’ conference room with the rest of the team, trying to act like I’m absorbing the strategy Coach and Max are walking us through. Diagrams flash on the TV screen. Arrows, zones, puck movement. I nod at the right moments, keep my posture straight, but it’s all static. It’s white noise behind the thunder in my head.

James leans forward across the table, nudging me with his elbow. “Hey, ballerina, nice pirouette yesterday when you made that blocker save. You auditioning for the Nutcracker or just adding style points?”

The guys laugh. Normally, I’d throw a smirk his way, maybe fire back with something about his noodle wrists or his tragic slapshot accuracy. But today, it hits differently. Too sharp. Too soon. Too much.

I slam my spoon on the table. “Maybe if you spent more time watching game footage instead of running your mouth, you’d stop blowing your mark in transition.”

Silence.

James’ smile fades like someone hit a switch. Parker freezes mid-bite. Even Ethan, who usually lives for chaos, looks stunned.

Coach Derek looks up from the laptop at the front of the room, his eyes narrowing just slightly. Max stops clicking through slides.

James leans back in his chair, his voice lower now. "Whoa. Okay. Didn’t expect that to land so hard."

Ethan, bless him, tries to cut the tension. “Hey, maybe he’s just hungry. Someone toss the guy a protein bar before he rips off someone’s head.”

A few nervous laughs trickle out, but no one’s really relaxed.

Coach finally speaks. “Emotions are up. That’s normal. But let’s keep it sharp, not personal. You can bleed out there, but this room stays clean. Got it?”

I nod slowly. My jaw is tight. “Yeah. My bad.”

James shrugs. "It’s cool. I’ll double down on film. We all need to tighten things up anyway."

The room starts to loosen. Max transitions back to the screen. The next few minutes are filled with focused, productive chatter about coverage zones and power play setups.

But I’m not focused.

I’m spiraling.

When the meeting ends, I make a beeline for the hallway outside the gym, headphones in hand. I need the solitude of the weight room. It’s like a lifeline to me right now. I’m halfway down the corridor when I hear steps behind me.

“Yo, Alex,” Parker calls out.

I stop, sighing under my breath before I turn. “What’s up?”

He catches up to me. “Not trying to be a pain in the ass, but you okay?”

I force a shrug. “Just hyped for the game.”

Parker raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. And I’m secretly a figure skater.”

Despite myself, I huff a half-laugh.

He nods toward the empty hallway and we walk. “Look, I’m not trying to pry. But I know you. That outburst in there? That wasn’t about James.”

I run a hand through my hair. “You’re right, man, it wasn’t. It’s… Nina.”

His eyes sharpen but stay kind. "Wait…are you saying there's something going on between you and Nina?"

I glance around, lower my voice. "Yeah. There has been. Since the retreat."

Parker’s eyebrows lift. “You’re serious.”

I nod. “We’ve been keeping it quiet. Didn’t want it to mess with team dynamics or cross professional lines. But it’s real. At least, it feels real to me."

Parker processes that for a second. “Damn. I had no idea.”

“She got an offer from the league office,” I say. “It’s a big promotion—national role, more money, more visibility. Everything she’s worked for. But it would mean leaving. Not just Detroit, but the work she’s doing with us, and me.”

Parker doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

I shake my head and continue. “I want to be supportive. I want her to chase whatever dream she wants. But watching her weigh it like I’m just another variable… it’s brutal.”

He blows out a breath. "Shit, man. That’s tough. Do you know where she’s leaning?"

“I have no fucking idea. It’s like I’m dangling over the edge, just waiting on her to either reach for me… or push me over the damn cliff.”

“You love her,” he says simply.

“Yeah, I do.”

Parker nods, letting that settle.

“Then maybe it’s time to stop hoping she throws you a rope,” he says. “And start figuring out how to stand on solid ground, with or without her.”

I glance away. “I just keep replaying it. The way she hesitates. The way she looks at me like she wants to choose this but can’t make peace with it. Like I’m some… detour from her real life.”

“She’d be long gone by now if that were true.”

“But what if she’s only staying because she feels guilty? Or because it’s easy right now? What happens when the shine wears off?”

Parker straightens. “You can’t control her reasons. But you can control what you do next. Don't live in her indecision. It'll kill you. We have Game 7 to focus on. Play like she’s either here to stay or already gone, whichever one will make you play your best."

His words hit harder than anything in the weight room ever could.

I stare down at my shoes, then back up. “You're right. I need to get my head together. We have to win this game.”

Parker claps me on the shoulder. “Then do that. Be the guy the team leans on. And when the game’s over, you deal with the rest.”

I nod slowly. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime. Just don’t throw your stick at me next time you’re spiraling.”

I manage a grin. “Noted.”

Parker starts to turn like he’s going to head toward the locker room, but then he pauses and turns back toward me. “There’s one more thing,” he says. “Yeah?"

He looks almost sheepish for half a second — rare for Parker. Then he shrugs like he’s tossing it out casual, even though I can tell it’s not. "If I hadn’t taken the chance with Grace," he says, "I’d probably still be the guy burying himself in training sessions and pretending that winning games was enough."

I frown. I’ve heard pieces of Parker’s story, but not like this. Not so raw.

“She scared the hell out of me," he admits, voice low. "Because she wasn’t a sure thing. Because she had her own life, her own dreams. I could’ve stayed safe. Focused on Bessie. Focused on hockey. But sometimes you have to leap before you’re sure you’ll land.” He meets my eyes steadily. “Best damn risk I ever took.”

The words sit heavy between us. No lecture. No bullshit. Just truth.

I nod, my throat thick. "Thanks, man," I say again, and this time I mean it differently. Deeper.

He claps me on the shoulder one last time and leaves me standing there in the empty hallway, the faint sounds of the weight room echoing down the corridor.

I turn my phone over in my hand, heart pounding harder than it ever has before a game. Parker’s right. I can’t live in the what-ifs. I can’t wait for Nina to save me.

If I’m going down, I’m going down swinging.

I open my texts and start to type.

Meet me at the rink in a half hour. Bring your skates.

I stare at the message for half a second before hitting send. No explanation. No overthinking.

Just one more shot.

***

The rink is almost unrecognizable without the buzz of the crowd, without the sharp bark of whistles and the echo of shouting players. Right now, it’s silent, the overhead lights dimmed to a low glow. The ice gleams like untouched glass.

I sit on the bench, lacing up my skates with hands that aren’t as steady as I’d like to admit. Every second feels stretched, drawn tight like a wire ready to snap.

The door creaks open.

Nina steps inside, carrying her skates in one hand, a worn sweatshirt hanging loose around her frame. Her hair’s pulled back in a messy bun, her eyes shadowed with caution.

"Hey," she says softly, voice carrying across the empty rink.

"Hey."

For a second, neither of us moves.

"Come on. I didn’t sharpen the blades on this fresh sheet of ice for nothing."

She smiles, small and tentative, and walks over to the bench to lace up.

We step onto the ice together. No drills. No pucks. Just the sound of our blades carving lazy lines across the surface. It’s easy and natural, like breathing.

For a long while, we just skate. Side by side. Sometimes close enough that our hands brush. Sometimes drifting apart, then finding each other again. No words. Just movement and air and the sound of our hearts trying to figure this out.

Finally, I break the silence.

"I’m not asking you to stay for me, Nina," I say, my voice low but sure. "I would never ask you to give up something you’ve worked for."

She glances at me, her eyes wide and too bright.

I skate a little ahead of her, then circle back. "I just want you to remember what you’ve built here. What you’ve done. Not just for the team. For you and for me."

She slows, coming to a stop near center ice.

I stop too, a few feet away. Giving her the space she needs.

"I see you, Nina," I say. "Not just the coach. Not just the professional. You."

The silence continues, heavier now.

Her throat works like she’s trying to find the words, but nothing comes out.

I don’t push. I don’t beg.

I just skate backward slowly, letting the distance widen, letting her feel the choice she has to make.

I say quietly, gliding a little closer to her. "Just skating around has always given me a sense of freedom. It's space to breathe and time to think when everything else feels too damn much."

She watches me, saying nothing, but her eyes soften.

I shift my weight, my voice dropping lower. "I thought maybe it could do the same for you. Maybe out here, away from everything, you'd find your answer, whatever it is."

Nina stays still for a second, her gaze locked on mine across the stretch of ice. Then she pushes off, skating toward me with slow, deliberate strides. She stops a few feet away, close enough that I can see the war playing out in her eyes.

"This... this means more than you know," she says, her voice soft, filled with something that sounds like gratitude. "I need this right now. Thank you."

She glances around the empty rink, taking it all in, her skates tracing small, thoughtful circles on the ice.

"Stay because you built something here," I say, my voice steady. "Not just a career. Not just wins. You made a difference, with us and with me. And maybe that's just as big as any promotion. Bigger, even."

She lifts her gaze back to mine, something steady and searching there.

"I'm not trying to make this harder," I say quietly. "If you choose to go, I'll respect it. You deserve to chase whatever future you want. I'm just giving you the truth—what you mean here, and what you mean to me."

She nods, looking down at the ice, then back up at me. "I know."

For a second, it feels like she might say more—might close the gap between us. But then she turns, pushing off again, gliding away toward the far end of the rink.

No answer.

Just the sound of her blades slicing cleanly through the ice as she laps around the rink.

I watch her go, my chest tight, but somehow… I’m at peace.

I gave her my truth.

Now it’s her turn to choose.

***

Game 7. Home ice. Everything's on the line.

The first period is a brawl from the opening faceoff. Bodies crash, sticks snap, and both teams come out like they’ve got something to prove. We strike first. Connor rips a wrister from the left circle, top shelf. Clean, deadly.

Midway through the period, the Rangers tie it up. Their winger, fast as hell, snipes a beauty glove side. I stretch, full extension, and still can’t reach it. I don’t blame myself. It was a perfect shot that was unstoppable. I reset, mentally clearing it like fog on glass.

Late in the first, we capitalize on a power play. Mikey threads a perfect pass from the blue line, and James redirects it with a slick backhand tip right past their goalie. Crowd goes insane. 2–1, Acers on top.

Between the second and third periods, the Zamboni hums across the ice, methodically resurfacing the rink under bright lights. In the locker room, the team is spread out—some downing water, others lost in the zone, still catching their breath.

Coach stands in front of the whiteboard, marker in hand, drawing arrows with purpose. "You’ve held the line. But now? Now we take it. Third period—our house, our rules."

Nina’s steps forward when Coach nods to her. "Breathe. Reset. This is where your mental edge matters. You’ve practiced resilience all season. Now it’s time to show it. Trust your instincts. Stick to your systems. And when it gets tough, because it will, use your tools. You’ve got them. Winners don’t avoid pressure. They overcome setbacks faster than anyone else on the ice."

James, still panting lightly, grins at her. “I swear you’re becoming the team’s favorite motivational podcast.”

She smirks. “Good. Because I only give five-star advice. Now hydrate and keep your heads clear. The game’s still ours to win.”

The guys tap sticks on the floor in agreement. Coach finishes the board notes and yells, "Twenty minutes left of play. Stay sharp. This is it."

I sit on the bench, towel draped around my shoulders, heart still thumping. One more period. One more chance. And for now, I’m forcing myself to see her only as the team’s sports psychologist, not the woman who can wreck my focus with a single look. Just the professional. The guide. The reason we’ve come this far.

The third period starts with the puck drop at center ice, the crowd screaming like it’s already overtime. Every pass, every hit, every shift carries the weight of a season. The Rangers are relentless… throwing bodies, jabbing sticks, trying to pivot the momentum back their way.

My heartbeat matches the slap of the puck on sticks. Every whistle is a quick breath. Every faceoff is a war.

They press hard out of the gate, swarming our zone, looking for a breakdown. I stay sharp, reading the puck like it’s lit up with neon signs. I see their winger trying to sneak through the slot. I cut the angle, challenge the shot, and absorb the pressure.

We're holding. But it’s not luck, it’s true grit. Focus. Controlled fire. And I’m the firewall.

I don’t think about the noise, or the pressure of what’s at stake. I think about the next stop. The next shift. The next second.

Because that’s how champions play.

I’m in the zone. Locked in. No thinking, just performing.

There’s a breakaway. Their top scorer barrels toward me, fakes left, then tries to roof it glove side. I snatch it out of the air like it’s nothing.

The building explodes into a thunderstorm of sound—horns blaring, fans on their feet, fists pumping like they just witnessed a miracle.

I don’t celebrate. I don’t need to. The boys know. We’re not letting this slip.

Final minute. Six-on-five. They pull their goalie. Pressure. Chaos.

Block. Smother. Clear.

The buzzer sounds.

We win.

The scoreboard flashes red, the final buzzer cutting through the chaos like a war horn. Fans are singing, jumping, and hugging strangers. Streamers shoot into the air, confetti starts falling from the rafters, and the house DJ blasts “We Will Rock You” over the speakers while the jumbotron flashes: ACERS TO THE CUP!

The announcers are going wild with “The Detroit Acers have done it! They’re heading to the Stanley Cup Finals!” Their voices are competing with the fans chanting our name, “DEE-TROIT ACERS!”

Our bench empties. The boys swarm the ice, gloves flying, helmets tossed. It’s madness, a beautiful, earned madness. I don’t even register the slap on my back from Ethan, the bear hug from James, or Connor hollering, “Let’s goooooo!”.

My eyes just scan through it all looking for her.

She’s there with Lizzie, standing just off to the side while Coach Stephens is being swarmed by reporters and flashing cameras for post-game interviews.

The team begins clearing the ice, whooping and laughing as they head toward the tunnel. A few of the guys—Connor, Dillon, even Mikey—slap hands with fans along the way. As they pass Nina and Lizzie, they pause for quick high-fives and victory grins. James leans in and says, "Nice pregame pep talk, Doc," before jogging backward into the tunnel.

I approach her, my chest still heaving from adrenaline. She steps forward without hesitation, wraps her arms around me, and pulls me in for a quick but full-bodied hug.

"That was awesome," she says against my ear. "See ya inside."

Then she steps back with a smile and gives me a subtle wink before I disappear into the tunnel.

Back in the locker room, it’s a zoo. Guys are shouting over music, spraying champagne, jerseys half-off, towels flying. Coach gives a quick speech and then lets us soak in the moment.

Tonight, we weren’t just a team. We were a damn storm.

We’re going for it all.

Next stop: the Cup.