Page 31 of On Ice
Evan
I’m still catching my breath from the regular season when the playoffs hit us like a freight train. We barely clawed our way into the final spot, nobody thought we’d make it. And once we did, there was no time to celebrate. No break. No reset. Just war, starting with the Carolina Storm. Everyone counted us out. First-round fodder. But we didn’t fold. We fought through seven brutal games, bled through overtime, and somehow came out on top. I still don’t know how we did it.
All I know is, we’re still standing.
Atlanta was next. Flashier team, looser systems. We found our rhythm. Six games, one bad injury, and a goal Rodriguez called “the best fluke of his life.”
By the time we hit the Conference Finals, we were exhausted. Chicago Blaze made us bleed for every inch of ice. Seven games again. Game 7 went to double overtime. Noah stood on his head. Deck dropped two guys. I couldn’t lift my left arm after a shoulder hit in Game 4, and I still haven’t told Luca how bad it was.
The win against Chicago still hasn’t sunk in. We made it to the Cup Final, and I should be riding the high. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. But my body’s wrecked, my head’s loud, and the pressure’s closing in all over again. Six games down. Tomorrow is Game 7, the last chance, the last battle to win the war. Luca decided I needed air, space, and water.
The ocean stretches endlessly around us, a perfect blue canvas meeting an equally flawless sky at the horizon. Somewhere beneath us, Luca’s yacht cuts through the water with barely a sound, the engine’s hum just a whisper against the splash of waves. The salt air fills my lungs with each breath, clean and sharp, so different from the antiseptic smell of Mom’s room at the care facility. I’ve spent as much time as possible there lately, but each time I feel more hopeless.
I stand at the railing, watching sunlight fracture across the water’s surface into countless diamond shards. Tomorrow is Game 7. The biggest game of my career. The culmination of everything we’ve fought for this season. And yet, somehow, hockey feels a million miles away.
Luca approaches from behind, the teak deck creaking slightly beneath his weight. He places a tumbler of something amber next to my hand on the polished railing. I take it without turning.
“The chef will have lunch ready in twenty minutes,” he says.
I nod, sipping the whisky. It burns pleasantly going down. “Thanks,” I say, meaning for more than just the scotch. Luca has been a rock for me. I’d never have guessed he could be so compassionate, but he’s been there for me with Mom.
Luca leans against the railing beside me, his normally impeccable appearance slightly softened by the day on the water. His hair moves in the breeze, his linen shirt open at the collar. He looks younger out here, away from the pressures of his empire, the constant vigilance his world requires.
“Have you spoken with Dr. Rhodes today?” he asks.
My stomach tightens. “This morning. No change.”
The words hang between us, inadequate and heavy. No change. Mom’s been “no change” for three days now. The pneumonia has weakened her heart. Her Alzheimer’s makes recovery more complicated. Dr. Rhodes has tried everything, aggressive antibiotics, experimental treatments, around-the-clock care. But sometimes, all the expertise in the world hits a wall.
Luca’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He’s frustrated. Used to problems that can be solved with money, with power, with the right connections. But this...
“I’m sorry,” he says finally.
“It’s not your fault.”
“I should have brought Dr. Rhodes in sooner.” There’s real regret in his voice. “When she first got sick, not after the pneumonia had already—”
“Luca,” I interrupt, turning to face him fully. “You’ve done everything. More than I could have on my own.”
He looks away, out toward the horizon. “I just hate that I couldn’t fix this for you, baby.”
The admission doesn’t surprise me. It would probably shock others though. Luca Barone isn’t a man accustomed to admitting limitations. He built his world on the premise that everything has a price, that anything can be acquired or arranged with the right resources. Mom’s illness has challenged that worldview.
“It’s enough for me,” I tell him, meaning it. “You’ve given her better care than I could have ever provided on my own.”
He shrugs, looking uncharacteristically emotional.
Something warm unfurls in my chest despite the ache that’s been my constant companion these past weeks. I reach for his hand, our fingers intertwining on the railing. “Luca,” I say softly. “It’s okay.”
A hint of a smile touches his lips. “I’m being a baby.”
“I love that you care.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “There was a time I didn’t think you had a heart.”
“Unfortunately, I do,” he says gruffly.
We stand in silence for a while, the yacht gliding through the water, taking us nowhere in particular. Just away. Away from hospitals and hockey arenas, from responsibilities and expectations. The sun feels good on my face, and for just a moment, I allow myself to exist solely in this space, with this man, without the weight of tomorrow pressing down.
“I dream about her sometimes,” I say suddenly. “Not how she is now, but before. When I was a kid. She’d come to all my games, even when my dad couldn’t make it. She’d bring this ridiculous thermos of hot chocolate, no matter what season it was.” The memory surfaces with unexpected clarity. “After every game, win or lose, she’d say the same thing: ‘That game means nothing. You’re going to win the Cup one day, you just watch.’”
Luca listens, his thumb tracing small circles on the back of my hand.
“In the dreams, she knows who I am,” I continue, my throat tightening. “She sees me, really sees me, and she’s proud of everything I’ve accomplished.”
“She is proud of you,” Luca says with quiet certainty.
I look away, blinking rapidly against the sudden burn in my eyes. The truth is, the mother who raised me is already gone. The woman in the care facility shares her face, her voice, but the essence of her, the memories, the personality, the connection, has been slowly erased by the disease.
“What if she goes while we’re playing tomorrow?” The fear that’s been haunting me finally escapes into the open air. “I can’t imagine not being there when she dies.”
Luca’s hand tightens on mine. “You can’t think like that. You can’t know the future. If that were to happen, you have to know she’d be looking down on you, rooting for you, right? Free of her diseased body. Happy again.”
Something breaks loose in my chest, a knot of tension so tight I actually grunt in pain. I turn into Luca, burying my face against his shoulder, allowing myself this moment of vulnerability. His arms come around me immediately, solid and sure.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs against my hair.
It’s hard to believe this man, tenderly comforting me, is the same man who had Marco drive me up a mountain to murder me. That man seems like a figment of my imagination these days. Luca loves me with a fierceness I’ve never known in a lover. I believe he’d happily die for me, and I feel the same toward him. This violent, scary man is my soulmate, and I don’t regret one second of my time with him.
“I love you,” I say against his shirt, breathing in the scent of him, expensive cologne mingled with sea air.
His arms tighten around me. “I love you more.”
I laugh gruffly. “Not possible.”
“Yes it is. Don’t argue,” he teases. “You know I know best.”
We stay like that for a long while, the yacht swaying gently beneath us, the sun warm on our shoulders. Eventually, I pull back, offering him a smile that feels genuine despite everything.
“So,” I say, “you mentioned something about lunch?”
Luca’s expression softens with relief at seeing me emerge from the darker thoughts. “The chef has prepared quite a spread. Assuming you can eat before the big game.”
“Just try and stop me.” I grin. “I’m fucking starving.”
He lifts his brows. “I’ll be sure and keep my fingers a safe distance from your mouth.”
“See that you do. I’m craving protein.”
He laughs, looking boyish and content. My chest tightens as I hold his dark gaze. I don’t know how I was lucky enough to capture this man’s heart, but I’ll be forever grateful.
Life is tumultuous at the moment, and so many things are up in the air. But today, out here on the endless blue, with the man I love, I’ll allow myself this moment of peace.
****
The Stanley Cup Final. It still doesn’t feel real, even as I lace up my skates, the familiar ritual doing little to calm the storm in my chest. San Francisco is not a team to be taken lightly. I go over every game in my mind as I prepare for this final clash.
San Francisco came at us like something unleashed in Game 1, their speed leaving us flat-footed and searching for answers. We lost 5-2, and the doubt crept in. Maybe we don’t belong here. Maybe our playoff run was just a fluke, a cosmic joke about to reach its punchline.
Game 2 was desperation hockey. Mills took a puck to the face in the first period, came back with twelve stitches and a full face shield, then scored the game-winner in overtime. His blood was still on the ice when we celebrated. 3-2 Ice Hawks. Series tied.
In Game 3, they adjusted, cutting off our breakout passes, stifling our forecheck. 4-1 Titans. Their building sounded like a jet engine for sixty straight minutes.
Game 4 should have broken us. Down 3–1 in the third period, Torres kept skating on an ankle that should’ve had him in a boot, not on the ice. We didn’t know how bad it was until later. But Rodriguez found another gear, dangling through their defense for two highlight-reel goals. Then Deck, of all people, fired a seeing-eye shot from the point with forty seconds left. 4–3 Ice Hawks. Series tied again.
They dominated us in Game 5. Noah made forty-seven saves and we still lost 5-2. Their captain, Westfield, was unstoppable, like he could see plays developing before they happened. We limped home down 3-2 in the series, one loss away from watching them lift the Cup on our ice.
Game 6 was pure will. Nothing left in the tank, running on fumes and desperation. Jackson somehow found enough energy to plant himself at the top of their crease all night, absorbing crosschecks, slashes, and verbal abuse. When he finally buried that rebound five minutes into the third, the building erupted like a volcano. Noah did the rest, standing on his head with nineteen saves in the final period alone. 3-1 Ice Hawks.
And now here we are. Game 7. One night. One final shot at the Cup.
The locker room is oddly quiet. No music pumping through speakers, no chatter bouncing off the walls. Just the sounds of tape being wrapped around sticks, velcro fastenings being secured, the occasional clink of skate blades against the floor. We’ve said all there is to say over the last six games. Forty-one weeks of hockey. Distilled to this single night.
“How’s the ankle?” I ask Torres as he finishes wrapping it with what has to be an entire roll of tape.
He gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ask me tomorrow.”
I nod, understanding completely. Pain is just a distraction, information at this point, and none of us are listening.
The ice gleams under the arena lights as we emerge for warmups, pristine and perfect, waiting to record our history. Across the rink, the Titans circle in their road whites, Westfield’s eyes briefly meeting mine as we cross paths. There’s a mutual respect there, an acknowledgment of the battle we’ve waged across six games.
Warmups pass in a blur of muscle memory. Dad and Matt wanted to be here, but they’re at the nursing home with Mom watching the game. That’s how it should be. I don’t want her to be alone. This way I can focus more effectively. The puck feels good off my stick, my edges cut clean and true. Noah is laser-focused in his net, stopping everything thrown his way. The crowd is already at full throat, sensing the magnitude of what’s about to unfold.
Back in the locker room for final preparations, Coach Daniels enters, and the room falls completely silent. He looks at each of us in turn, his face betraying none of the pressure he must feel.
“Sixty minutes,” he says finally. “Maybe more. That’s all that’s left of this season. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve sacrificed, it all comes down to tonight.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle.
“There’s nothing tactical left to discuss,” he says gruffly. “You know them, they know you. It comes down to will now. Who wants it more.” His eyes find mine. “Remember who you are out there. Remember what got you here. Play your game, not theirs.”
Noah stands abruptly, his pads making him look twice his normal size. “Let’s fucking go,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “This is our night.”
The final horn signals us out of the locker room and into the tunnel. The tunnel to the ice feels endless, the roar of the crowd growing louder with each step. The vibration runs through the concrete and up through my skates. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from exertion but from the moment’s gravity. This is what we dream about as kids, skating on frozen ponds, imagining the clock winding down in Game 7.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find Torres there, his eyes fierce with determination despite the pain I know is shooting through his leg with every stride.
“Captain,” he says simply. “Lead us home.”
I nod, a lump forming in my throat. I’m grateful for his faith in me. I’m proud to lead this great team. I just pray I don’t let my brothers down out there. This night means so much to all of us. If we fail, I’ll feel responsible. I can’t help it. I know they need my leadership now more than ever. If we lose, I’ll feel like I didn’t come through for them.
The national anthem seems to stretch forever, each note hanging in the air like time itself is reluctant to move forward, to reach the moment of reckoning. I scan the owner’s box and find Luca’s dark form by the glass window. He gives a single nod, but it speaks volumes to me.
The puck drops, and Game 7 begins.
The Titans come out flying, as if determined to end this early. Their forecheck is relentless, pinning us in our zone for shifts at a time. Noah weathers the storm, making three spectacular saves in the first five minutes. We’re on our heels, reacting instead of dictating.
“Weather it,” I call to my linemates as we change on the fly. “Find our game.”
Slowly, methodically, we start to push back. Mills makes a perfect outlet pass to spring Jackson on a partial breakaway, but Harmon, the Titans’ goalie, flashes the leather. The crowd groans collectively before immediately rising again in appreciation of the effort.
The first period ends scoreless, but the shot count tells the story: 14-6 for the Titans. In the locker room, Noah removes his mask, his face sheened with sweat despite the arena’s chill.
“I’ve got the crease,” he says. “Find us one at the other end.”
The second period brings a shift in momentum. Rodriguez dangles through two Titans defenders and feeds me a perfect pass in the slot. I fire it high glove-side where Harmon has been vulnerable all series, but he somehow gets a piece of it. The puck deflects off his trapper and clangs off the crossbar, the sound reverberating through the arena like a gunshot.
“Keep coming,” Torres shouts from the bench. “He’s shaky.”
Midway through the period, catastrophe strikes. Westfield intercepts a clearing attempt by Miller and finds Alvarez with a no-look pass. Alvarez’s shot changes direction off Reeves’ stick, leaving Noah with no chance. 1-0 Titans.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
The crowd deflates momentarily before rallying, trying to will energy back into our legs. We push for the equalizer, hemming the Titans in their zone for almost two full minutes near the end of the period, but can’t solve Harmon.
As the horn sounds, I want to slam my stick against the boards in frustration. But I restrain myself. I need to lead, not freak out. My team will panic if I look like I’m panicking. But truth be told, I am panicking. Twenty minutes left in our season, and we’re trailing. That can’t fucking be how it ends for us.
The locker room is tense but not defeated. Coach Daniels makes a few tactical adjustments, but his message is simple: “Empty the tank. Leave nothing for tomorrow.”
The third period begins with a new energy. Torres and Mills are everywhere, breaking up plays defensively and jumping into the rush like they haven’t just played two brutal periods and are running on fumes and willpower. Noah keeps us in it with a spectacular glove save on Westfield that seems to defy physics.
Nine minutes in, the breakthrough we need. Rodriguez draws a hooking penalty with a power move to the net. Our power play, which has been anemic all series, finally clicks. Mills walks the blue line and fires a shot that Jackson tips in the high slot. The puck changes direction just enough to fool Harmon. 1-1.
The arena explodes, the noise physical enough to feel in my chest. Momentum is on our side now, and we press the advantage. The Titans look suddenly hesitant, their passes a half-second slower, their forechecking less aggressive.
With seven minutes left, I win a battle along the boards and find Rodriguez with a backhand pass. He spins off his check and threads a perfect pass to Mills, who’s pinched down from the point. Mills one-times it past Harmon’s blocker. 2-1 Ice Hawks.
The building reaches a new decibel level I didn’t think possible. On the bench, Torres grabs my jersey, screaming something I can’t hear over the crowd. His eyes are wild with belief.
Six minutes. Five. Four. The Titans push back desperately, throwing everything at us. Noah stands tall, swallowing up shots, controlling rebounds. Every clearance, every blocked shot is met with a roar from the crowd.
With 2:38 left on the clock, they pull Harmon for an extra attacker. Six-on-five. The pressure is relentless. I block a shot with my shin that sends daggers of pain up my leg, but somehow clear the zone. Twenty seconds of respite.
They regroup quickly. Westfield quarterbacking from the point, moving the puck with precision. A shot from the half-wall is blocked by Torres. The rebound squirts to the slot where Alvarez is waiting. His one-timer looks destined for the back of the net, but Noah stretches across with his pad, somehow keeping it out.
The puck bounces to the corner where I battle Westfield, feeling the desperation in his crosscheck against my back. I manage to chip it off the glass and out, buying another fifteen seconds.
One minute left.
The Titans storm back into our zone. Rodriguez loses his stick defending but stays in the lane, blocking a shot with his chest that must leave a bruise the size of a dinner plate. The puck bounces to me, and I see daylight, a chance to seal it with an empty-netter.
I race toward center ice, the puck on my stick, nothing between me and the vacant net. But I hear the frantic strides behind me, Westfield, refusing to concede. His dive is desperate, his stick connecting with the puck just as I release my shot. The puck skitters wide of the empty net.
Thirty seconds.
Back in our zone now, the Titans making one final push. A point shot is blocked by Mills, but the rebound falls to Westfield. He fires through traffic. The puck hits someone, Deck, I think, and changes direction. Noah is already moving the other way.
The world slows down. I see the puck floating toward the open side of the net, see Noah desperately trying to recover, his glove reaching out in what seems like slow motion. The puck strikes the inside of the post with a metallic ring that cuts through the crowd noise like a knife.
And somehow, impossibly, it stays out. Bouncing along the goal line without crossing it. Noah swipes it away with his paddle, and Torres clears it the length of the ice.
Ten seconds.
The Titans can’t regroup in time. Westfield carries it across our blue line with three seconds left, fires a desperation shot that Noah easily gloves.
The horn sounds. Game over.
For a moment, I can’t move, can’t process what’s happened. Then Torres crashes into me, his face wet with tears or sweat or both. Rodriguez leaps onto my back, screaming incoherently. The bench empties, everyone piling toward Noah, who’s raised his arms to the rafters in disbelief.
We’ve done it. The Ice Hawks are Stanley Cup Champions.
Through the chaos, my eyes find the owner’s box. Luca’s not there, there’s just the empty glass where I expected him to be. Surprised, uneasiness shifts though me, but then I’m distracted as Noah almost tackles me with excitement.
The commissioner appears on the ice with the Cup, its silver surface gleaming under the arena lights. The trophy presentation is a blur, handshakes, congratulations, the weight of the Cup as it’s placed in my hands, surprisingly heavy yet somehow lighter than I imagined.
I raise it above my head, feeling the roar of the crowd in my bones. In this moment, everything else falls away, the pain, the exhaustion, the worries about Mom, the complications of loving Luca, all of it. There is only this perfect, crystallized instant of triumph.
As I lower the Cup, preparing to pass it to Deck, the veteran who’s sacrificed more than any of us, I catch Coach’s eye. He grins at me, his face flushed. He’s been at this a long time and we brought the trophy home for him. I’ve never before seen him on the verge of tears, but his eyes are shining suspiciously.
The Cup continues its journey from player to player, each celebration unique and perfect. Noah sinks to his knees, overcome. Rodriguez skates in a circle with it, jubilant. Mills kisses the metal, many gritty years of professional hockey culminating in this moment.
Just off the ice, reporters crowd in behind the ropes, calling my name. I answer on instinct, something about trusting my teammates, something about never giving up. I honestly don’t even know what I say. I’m still inside the game.
“Captain Riley,” one of them asks, “did you ever doubt you’d be here when you were ten points out of a playoff spot in January?”
I think about all we’ve overcome, the early-season struggles, the road losing streak, the injuries. Of course we doubted we could get here. We’re fucking humans, not robots.
“Every damn day,” I say gruffly, emotions surging inside of me. “We’d never take a moment like this for granted.”
As the frenzy continues around me, I find myself taking in the scene, my teammates embracing, fans pressing against the glass, the gleam of the Cup as it passes from player to player. The culmination of thousands of early mornings, countless bruises, broken bones, and battles lost and won exists in a perfect bubble of time that’s already slipping away.
Tomorrow will bring parades and parties, interviews and obligations. Some of these men won’t wear this jersey again. The team that fought and bled together for this trophy will never be the same. We’ll never be this team again, not exactly. Players get traded, retire, or leave in free agency after the season. And that might be the hardest thing to accept.
But right now, with the roar of the crowd washing over us and the Cup making its journey through outstretched hands, none of that matters. We did the impossible. Together. We did that. This exact lineup of men. We wrote our names in history. And no matter what comes next, they can never take this night away from us.
As I watch Noah kiss the Cup with tears streaming down his face, I realize that every sacrifice, every moment of doubt, every painful stride on tired legs, it was all worth it for this.
To outsiders, it’s just a game. Grown men chasing a puck around the ice, looking for glory.
But to us? To the ones who’ve bled for it, who’ve battled every damn day to stay in the fight, this victory is everything.