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Chapter thirty-four

Alex

“T onight’s the night we can make history, boys.”

James is already pacing in front of the whiteboard, stick in hand like it’s a mic. “You know what this smells like?”

“Victory?” Mikey offers, mouth full of protein bar.

James grins. “Smells like champagne, baby.”

Ethan leans over, whispering to his stick. “Don’t worry. You do your job, I’ll do mine.”

Connor glances over at Mikey and grins. "Hey, your socks match your underwear today?"

Mikey smirks without missing a beat. "You know it. Full set. Performance gear, baby. Can’t lose when everything's coordinated."

Parker’s calm, lacing up his skates methodically. “Let him chirp. You all know the drill. Keep it clean, sharp, and relentless.”

Coach Derek steps into the room. Instantly, the banter dies. He doesn’t have to yell. He never does.

“This isn’t just about lifting a trophy,” he says, eyes scanning each one of us. “It’s about every hour we’ve bled for this moment. Don’t play safe. Play real.”

There’s a pulse in the air. Something electric. I feel it running through my veins as I pull on my mask. I close my eyes for half a second.

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

Nina’s voice is steady in my head.

I nod once, to no one, and stand. It’s Go Time.

***

The arena is thunderous. Full sellout. Fans shaking the glass. Drums pounding. Horns blaring. If the world ends tonight, it’ll sound like this.

Puck drops. Game 6. Stanley Cup Finals. Acers vs. Edmonton. Acers are up 3-2 in the series. If we win tonight, it's all over.

Connor wins the faceoff clean. James grabs it, bolts down the wing. He dekes the defenseman out of his skates, cuts in, fires…

GOAL.

Top shelf.

“Let’s fucking go!” James yells, gliding past our bench with both fists raised.

The crowd detonates. The horn blasts like a cannon. 1–0 Acers.

But the lead doesn’t last.

Oilers answer with a breakaway. Their center finds a seam, breaks through untouched. I square up, drop low, but he lifts it just over my blocker.

Tie game.

I slam my blocker into the post. Hard. Too hard.

“Hey,” Parker says as he skates by. “You’ve got this. Reset.”

I glance up to the stands for just a second, but I see her. Nina, right in her usual seat, eyes locked on me. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look worried.

I breathe in. Out. And we go again.

***

The second period opens with violence.

Ethan gets tripped going into the boards. No call. He hops up, jaw tight, but keeps it clean.

He skates past the ref and says, "That was a clear trip. You can’t let that go, not in a game like this."

The puck pops out behind their net. Parker dishes it to Connor, who punches it in with a gritty rebound.

2–1 Acers.

The place goes berserk.

Edmonton amps up the physicality. Their winger boards Mikey. Still no call. Mikey glares but skates off.

Next shift, chirping erupts mid-ice.

“You even belong out here?” One of their players taunts Ethan.

Ethan grins. “I belong wherever you’re losing.”

The ref gets between them. “Play the puck, gentlemen.”

Oilers fire off a rocket. I slide across the crease with my glove out and snag it clean.

Their sniper stares.

“You’re lucky,” he says.

I grin behind the cage. “I’m better than lucky. Try again.”

They get another power play because James is called for hooking during a chaotic shift in our zone. He slams the penalty box door shut behind him, muttering a string of curses.

"Soft call," Dillon growls from the bench. "He barely touched him."

We kill the penalty, just barely. Ethan blocks a shot with his shin and limps through the next shift. I make two sprawling saves and cover the puck as three Oilers crash the crease.

“Breathe, boys!” Coach yells. “Weather the storm!”

It’s like a war zone. I’m soaked, panting, but focused.

Nina’s words come back like a drumbeat.

Control what you can. Champions regroup quickly.

I tune out everything else.

Third period. Oilers tie it again. A perfect screen in front, and I never see it until it’s behind me.

2–2.

I smack my stick once, then reset. No time to stew. This is it.

Every shot feels like it’s traveling in slow motion. Every save is another breath stolen.

The bench is on fire. James shouts from the bench: “Let’s fucking end this!”

With four minutes left, we get the faceoff in their zone.

Connor lines up at the dot next to Edmonton’s captain and grins. “Hope you stretched, old man.”

The guy growls, “I’m about to dance circles around you.”

Parker leans in from the wing. “You skating tonight or just coasting on reputation?”

Another Oiler growls, “You’re not even a threat.”

Connor fires back, “Then you won’t mind watching us light the lamp again.”

Connor wins it clean, dropping the puck back to Dillon at the point. Dillon fakes a shot, drawing the defender, then slides it across the blue line to Parker. He catches it in stride, glances once, sees the lane open up and lets it rip.

The puck rockets off his stick, slicing through a narrow gap between bodies crashing the slot.

The goalie lunges.

Too late.

Boom.

Bar down.

3–2 Acers.

“Townsend!” I scream from the crease.

He skates past, pointing his stick at the crowd. “This is our barn!”

But it’s not over.

Oilers pull their goalie with 90 seconds left. They come in waves. Pucks flying. Bodies flying. It’s chaos.

I make save after save. One bounces off the post. Another hits my chest and drops in front. I cover it just before their winger crashes the crease.

“Where’s the whistle?” I bark.

The ref finally blows it dead. Twelve seconds left.

Faceoff in our zone.

I meet Connor’s eyes. “Lock this down. We're not giving them another inch.”

He nods.

The puck drops. Their center wins it. Shot comes in hard—

I dive.

Glove outstretched.

Snap.

Caught.

Whistle.

I roll onto my back, puck clutched to my chest.

The clock ticks.

Three.

Two.

One.

BUZZ.

WE WIN!

The horn roars. The crowd surges like a tidal wave—people leap to their feet, screaming, sobbing, pounding the glass. Fans throw their arms around strangers, beer flies, hats hit the ice. The whole arena vibrates with noise so deafening it swallows my thoughts.

I drop to my knees as the bench clears. Bodies slam into me—James, Parker, Ethan, Mikey. We collapse in a tangled heap, shouting, crying, howling like wild animals who finally tasted blood.

“We’re fucking legends!” James screams over the chaos.

Music blares. Lights spin. The PA echoes: “The Detroit Acers are your STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS!”

It’s the sound of everything we’ve fought for.

The Oilers line up. We skate to center ice, one by one, shaking hands. It’s tradition. It’s respect. It’s brutal grace.

Their captain looks me in the eye. “Hell of a game, Chadwick.”

“You too,” I reply, heart pounding.

They skate off, heads high.

We stay.

The red carpet unrolls in a streak of crimson under the floodlights, unfurling across the center of the ice like destiny itself. Flashbulbs explode from every angle, lighting the rink like a rock concert. The noise is still ear splitting—drums, horns, fans chanting names while pounding the boards.

Then the announcer's voice booms over the speakers: “The Conn Smythe Trophy, awarded to the most valuable player of the playoffs... goes to Alex Chadwick!”

My heart lurches. The guys erupt, banging their sticks on the ice, hollering my name. The fans join in.

"Chadwick! Chadwick!"

My chest tightens as Connor and James shove me forward, laughing, jostling.

Alone on the carpet, under the lights, in front of twenty thousand roaring fans. And her.

I take a breath—and step into the moment and proudly raise the trophy. Over the roar of the crowd, I catch Coach Stephens’ voice from behind me, low but fierce: “Well deserved.”

Then—the Stanley Cup.

The announcer’s voice shakes the rafters: “Ladies and gentlemen... the Stanley Cup Champions—your Detroit Acers!”

The silver trophy gleams under the lights as it’s brought to center ice. Coach steps forward first, lifting it off its pedestal like it weighs nothing.

He raises it high over his head, turning in a full circle so the fans can see. Then he hands it over to our captain, Connor, who grabs it with both hands, eyes wide, almost reverent.

Connor lifts the Cup and skates a full lap around the ice, hoisting it high above his head as he glides past section after section of screaming fans. People are pressed to the glass, waving signs, crying, clapping, chanting his name. He taps his chest and points skyward, soaking in every heartbeat of this once-in-a-lifetime moment.

Then he glides toward me, grinning ear to ear.

And passes it to me.

The moment the metal touches my hands, every bruise, every scar, every early morning and late-night grind, vanishes.

I raise it to the rafters and take my lap.

The crowd ignites again, a wall of sound that rattles through me. It’s not just noise, it’s the city lifting us onto its shoulders. Their roar isn’t just celebration; it’s an anthem. And right in the heart of it all, I’m more alive than I’ve ever been.

Champions.

Forever.

***

Later, after the Cup has made its rounds and the final photo flashes fade, reporters surge onto the ice like sharks. One makes a beeline for me, mic already raised.

"Alex! Alex!" she calls, catching my eye.

I stop, breath heaving, helmet tucked under my arm, and nod.

“Alex, you just won the Stanley Cup. Conn Smythe. Franchise history made tonight. What’s going through your head right now?”

I pause, still sweaty, still reeling.

Her microphone is in my face. Cameras in every direction.

“This team? This family? We didn’t just survive a season. We found something in ourselves—something bigger. We played with heart. With grit. And maybe a little magic.”

I don’t say her name. I don’t have to.

The reporter raises an eyebrow and leans in. “What does this win mean for you personally?”

And before I answer, I see her walking the red carpet right toward me. She stops right behind the reporter, waiting for me to finish the interview."

It's my moment and I say what I've wanted to say for weeks now.

“It means I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Some wins happen on the ice. Others… they sneak up on you when your guard’s down, when you least expect it. And somehow, those are the ones that ultimately mean the most.”

"Thanks, Alex. And congratulations again."

She backs away as I hand off the mic, leaving nothing else between me and...

Nina.

She’s already stepping into me.

Her arms around my neck. My hands around her waist.

The kiss is everything. Fire and relief. Real and raw.

Behind us, the celebration rages on. But right now it’s just her.

My win I never saw coming.

My person.

And damn if I’m not the luckiest bastard to stand beside her, knowing she's mine, and I’m hers.

No spotlight, no trophy could ever compare to this—just her, standing in front of me…

Everything I didn’t know I needed until now.