Page 27

Nothing in my hockey career had prepared me for the particular brand of anxiety that came with championship day. I'd played in important games before—state finals in high school, key matchups throughout college—but this was different. This was the culmination of four years of work, my last game in a college uniform, and I knew professional scouts would be watching with particular interest.

The stakes had never been higher, and my stomach knew it.

"You look like you're about to throw up," Zach observed helpfully as we dressed in the visiting team's locker room. "Please aim away from my gear if you do."

"Thanks for the support," I replied dryly, lacing my skates with perhaps more concentration than necessary. "Very comforting."

"Just keeping it real." He bumped my shoulder lightly with his own. "But seriously, you've got this."

For all his joking and bravado, Zach had been my rock throughout the season—pushing me through rehabilitation, keeping my spirits up during the long weeks on the bench, never once letting me doubt that I'd return to form.

"It's been an honor," he said suddenly, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "Playing with you these past years."

"Same here. Couldn't have asked for a better teammate. Or friend."

Zach cleared his throat. "Enough sappy shit," he declared. "We've got a game to win."

The locker room was a mixture of tense concentration and forced casualness, each player handling the pressure in their own way. Tristan was going through his usual methodical preparation, headphones on as he visualized key plays. Freshmen tried to act nonchalant while sneaking glances at the veterans for cues on how to behave.

A knock at the door broke through the pre-game atmosphere, and Coach Barnett called out, "Five minutes for press, then we lock it down."

My heart gave a familiar skip as Lucas entered alongside Nate, both in their professional attire with press badges prominently displayed. Despite the formality of the setting, Lucas's eyes immediately sought mine, a small, private smile crossing his face when our gazes met.

"Well, if it isn't the press corps," Zach announced loudly. "Come to document our inevitable victory."

"Or your spectacular failure," Nate retorted without missing a beat. "We're prepared for either storyline."

Their banter provided a welcome distraction from my nerves, though I noticed the underlying tension between them hadn't quite dissipated despite weeks of what Lucas referred to as "their weird mating dance of mutual antagonism."

While most of the reporters dispersed to interview different players, Lucas made his way to my corner of the locker room, notebook in hand but expression far more personal than professional.

"Hey," he said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I might pass out or throw up or both," I admitted, keeping my voice low. "But otherwise great."

Lucas laughed, then caught himself, remembering we were in a semi-public setting. "You've been stretching properly, right? And hydrating? You know how you get headaches when you don't drink enough water before games."

From nearby, Nate chuckled. "Listen to you, like a hockey stage mom. 'Did you eat your vegetables, sweetie? Did you pack your lucky socks?'"

Lucas flushed but didn't deny it. "I care, sue me."

"It's cute," Nate assured him. "In a slightly pathetic, completely whipped kind of way."

"Ignore him," I told Lucas. "He's just jealous because no one fusses over him."

"I don't need fussing," Nate declared loftily. "I'm a self-sufficient adult who—"

"Forgot to eat breakfast because he was too busy reorganizing his camera lenses for the fourteenth time," Lucas finished for him. "I had to physically shove a granola bar into his hands this morning."

Zach looked far too interested in this information. "Disorganized and forgetful? How do you function, press boy?"

"Better than you, hockey goon," Nate fired back. "At least I remember to text people back when I say I will."

An uncomfortable silence fell at this pointed reference. Zach had the grace to look slightly abashed, while the rest of us pretended great interest in our immediate surroundings.

Coach's voice saved us from further awkwardness. "Press out! Time to focus, gentlemen."

As the reporters began filing toward the door, Lucas hesitated beside me. Then, in a move that surprised both of us, he pulled me into a tight hug, public setting be damned.

"You've got this," he whispered fiercely in my ear. "You're the best player on that ice and the strongest person I know. Go show them."

I held onto him perhaps a moment longer than was strictly appropriate, drawing strength from his unwavering belief in me. "Thanks," I murmured as we separated.

Lucas's smile was soft and private. As he turned to leave, we were treated to an unexpected sight: Nate, in an apparent moment of emotional bravery, had approached Zach with a hesitant expression.

"Good luck out there," he said stiffly. "Try not to fall on your face or anything."

"Wouldn't dream of disappointing my most supportive fan," Zach replied, his tone hovering between sarcastic and sincere.

Then, in a move that silenced the entire locker room, Nate leaned in and pressed a quick, awkward kiss to Zach's cheek. "For luck," he muttered, immediately turning several shades of red.

Zach looked thunderstruck, his usual confidence replaced by wide-eyed surprise. "I, uh—thanks?" he managed, his own cheeks flushing.

"Just keep your head in the game," Nate admonished, already backing toward the door. "And your stick on the ice, or whatever that hockey saying is."

"Keep your head up and your stick on the ice," Zach corrected automatically, then seemed to shake himself out of his daze. "Nate, wait—"

In two quick strides, he closed the distance between them, cupped Nate's face in his hands, and kissed him—fully, properly, no hesitation. The locker room erupted in whistles and cheers as Nate, after a moment of shock, kissed him back with equal fervor.

When they broke apart, both were breathing harder than the brief kiss warranted, staring at each other with a mixture of surprise and long-suppressed longing.

"What was that for?" Nate asked, his voice barely audible over the continued cheers and catcalls from the team.

"Should've done it months ago," Zach replied simply. "Sorry I'm an idiot."

"Well, that's been established," Nate agreed, a smile breaking through his surprise.

"Go to dinner with me after the game?" Zach asked, uncharacteristically vulnerable. "A real date, not just hanging out or whatever we've been pretending it is."

Nate's smile widened. "Yes. But only if you win. I don't date losers."

"Harsh but fair," Zach laughed, releasing him reluctantly. "Guess I better go win a championship then."

Lucas caught my eye across the room, his expression a delighted "did you see that?!" I nodded, giving him a thumbs-up. We'd both known this was coming for months, but the timing was unexpected—and perfect in its own way. Nothing like the pressure of a championship to force emotional honesty.

"Called it," Lucas mouthed as he backed toward the door, looking smug.

"We both did," I mouthed back, unable to suppress my grin.

As the door closed behind the reporters, Coach Barnett cleared his throat, drawing our attention back to the matter at hand. "Well, now that Nate and Zach have finally sorted out their obvious attraction, perhaps we can focus on winning a hockey game?"

The tension in the room broke with laughter, and even Zach had the grace to look mildly embarrassed.

"Sorry, Coach," he muttered, though his smile rather undercut the apology.

"Don't be sorry, be focused," Coach replied. "Channel that energy into the game. Now, let's talk strategy..."

The rest of the pre-game preparation passed in a blur of tactical discussions and last-minute adjustments. By the time we lined up to take the ice, my earlier anxiety had transformed into a focused determination. Whatever happened today—win or lose—I wanted to leave everything on the ice, to know I'd given my absolute best in my final collegiate game.

The arena was packed, the roar of the crowd a physical presence as we skated out for warm-ups. I spotted Lucas in the press section, his professional demeanor firmly in place though he allowed himself a small wave when our eyes met. Beside him, Nate looked equally composed, though his gaze kept straying to Zach during warm-up drills.

"Your man looks good in a tie," Zach commented as we stretched near the boards. "So does mine. We have excellent taste."

"They're not just eye candy, you know," I pointed out, though I couldn't disagree with his assessment. "They're actually really good at their jobs."

"Multi-talented," Zach agreed cheerfully. "Brains and beauty. We're punching way above our weight class, Sean."

I laughed, grateful for the momentary lightness before the intensity to come. "Don't I know it."

The puck dropped on what would prove to be one of the most challenging games of my career. The opposing team was every bit as skilled and determined as we were, their defense seemingly impenetrable in the first period as both teams felt each other out, neither willing to risk a costly mistake.

By the first intermission, the score remained 0-0, both teams retreating to their locker rooms to regroup and strategize.

"They're good," Tristan acknowledged grimly. "But so are we. We need to be more aggressive on the forecheck, create turnovers in their zone."

Coach nodded his agreement, making adjustments to our approach for the second period. I listened intently, visualizing the plays he described, mentally preparing for the battles to come.

When we returned to the ice, there was a new intensity to our play. We pressed harder, skated faster, fought for every inch of ice. But midway through the period, disaster struck. During a scramble in front of our net, I lunged to clear a loose puck and landed awkwardly, my rehabilitated shoulder taking the brunt of the impact.

Pain flared through the joint, sharp and familiar in the worst possible way. I skated to the bench, trying to mask my discomfort, but Coach's keen eyes missed nothing.

"Sean, you okay?" he asked sharply as Dr. Shaw appeared beside him.

"Fine," I gritted out, rotating my arm experimentally. The pain was acute but different from the chronic ache of my previous injury—a new impact rather than accumulated damage. "Just tweaked it a bit."

Dr. Shaw's examination was quick but thorough. "Minor strain," he concluded. "Not a re-injury of the previous issue. Rest it for a few minutes, ice if you need it, but you should be able to continue if you're careful."

Coach looked at me directly. "Your call, Sean. No pressure either way."

The fact that he was leaving it up to me, trusting my judgment after everything that had happened earlier in the season, meant a lot. I rotated my shoulder again, assessing the pain objectively. It hurt, but it was manageable—nothing like the debilitating agony I'd hidden for weeks before.

"I'm good to go," I decided. "Just need a few minutes and some ice."

Coach nodded, though his expression remained concerned. "Take all the time you need. We've got this covered until you're ready."

From the press area, I could see Lucas watching intently, his professional mask slipping to reveal naked worry. I gave him a subtle thumbs-up, trying to convey that this wasn't like last time, that I wasn't hiding anything serious.

The game continued, my shoulder throbbing but functional as I rejoined play. I adjusted my approach, relying more on positioning and less on physical force, using my stick and body placement to defend rather than brute strength.

The third period began with the score still deadlocked at 0-0, the tension in the arena palpable as both teams fought for advantage. Then, midway through the period, disaster struck again—this time on the scoreboard. A deflected shot from the point found its way past our goalie, giving our opponents a 1-0 lead with less than ten minutes remaining.

The groan from our bench was audible even over the wild cheers from the opposing team's section. We'd fought so hard, come so far, only to see the championship slipping away in the final minutes.

During a timeout, I skated to the bench, chest heaving from exertion, shoulder protesting each movement. Coach was drawing up a play to generate offense, but I had a sudden, crazy idea.

"Coach," I said, my voice clear despite my labored breathing. "Put me in front of the net on the next power play."

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind. "You're a defenseman, Sean."

"I know, but I'm also six-foot-two and good at screening goalies," I pointed out. "We need bodies in front, traffic they can't clear easily. Let me try."

Coach hesitated, then nodded slowly. "One shift. Make it count."

When play resumed, I found myself in the unfamiliar position of forward on the power play, planted directly in front of the opposing goalie as my teammates cycled the puck around the perimeter. I could sense the goalie's annoyance as I established my position, using my size to block his vision while staying just outside the crease to avoid a penalty.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Tristan at the blue line, winding up for a shot. I braced myself, ready to react if the puck came near. Everything seemed to slow down—Tristan's stick connecting with the puck, the black disk hurtling toward the net, my own stick moving into position almost before I consciously directed it.

The puck glanced off my blade, changing direction just enough to slide beneath the goalie's pad and into the net. The arena erupted, my teammates crashing into me with triumphant shouts as I roared in celebration, the pain in my shoulder temporarily forgotten in the rush of scoring the tying goal.

"Told you it would work!" I shouted to Coach as we skated past the bench, his stoic expression breaking into a proud grin.

"One lucky deflection doesn't make you a forward, Sean," he called back, though he couldn't hide his smile. "Back to defense next shift!"

The clock wound down with the score still tied 1-1, neither team able to break through for a winning goal in regulation time. As the final buzzer sounded, we retreated to the locker room for a brief intermission before overtime—sudden death, winner takes all.