Page 31

Chapter 31

Final Game

Dmitri

T he locker room hums with pre-game tension, that unique mix of focus and adrenaline that comes before a game. Some guys have their rituals—Finn with his tape job that’s more superstition than function, Adam with his endless stretching routine, Nate staring at the whiteboard like it holds the secrets to the universe.

Me? I’m just trying to breathe.

Game seven. Stanley Cup Final. Sixty minutes to glory or heartbreak.

And all I can think about is her.

How she’ll react when I tell her that I don’t just want her in my life—I want to build a life with her.

I press my thumb against the roll of tape in my hands, stretching it tighter than I should. Control what you can. Tape the stick. Play the game. Worry about Erin later.

Easier said than done.

“Yo, Sokolov.”

Liam drops onto the bench beside me, already in his base layers, playoff beard in full glory. He’s watching me too closely, like he can hear every thought thundering through my skull.

“You good?”

I grunt, focusing on my hands, on the slow, methodical wrap of the tape. Left to right. No bubbles. Control what you can.

Liam snorts. “Yeah, you sound good. Real convincing.”

I ignore him.

“Erin’s here tonight.” His voice is casual, but I hear the pointed edge beneath it.

My hands falter—just for a second. Just long enough to mess up the tape job.

I exhale through my nose, tearing off the ruined section. “Ris will be happy.”

Liam stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “That’s what you’re going with? Ris will be happy?”

I don’t answer.

He leans in, voice dropping. “She’s here, Dima. For you . ”

I clench my jaw. “Or maybe she’s here for her brother.”

He shrugs, considering my point. “Well, I’m sure that’s true too. But she’ll be looking only at you, my friend.”

I slam my stick down, my jaw tight, my teeth grinding.

Liam doesn’t back down. “You think I don’t see the way you look at her? The way she looks at you? My sister’s never looked at anyone like that in her entire life. From the first time you guys were in the same room.”

My pulse hammers against my ribs. I stare down at my hands, the ruined tape job, the pieces I’ll have to strip off and redo. The pieces of me I’ve been trying to keep from falling apart for weeks.

“Yeah?” My voice is a rumble.

Liam exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “You let her leave, and she’s heartbroken.”

Fuck. All these heartbroken girls around me, and me scrambling to square the circle and fix it.

I didn’t know how else to protect Ris, but to stand there and watch her leave, pretending it was the right thing. Pretending it didn’t gut me.

I rub a hand over my face. “You think she’ll take us back?”

“I think you’re making it harder than it has to be.” Liam’s voice is calm now, not pushing, just…steady. “You love her. She loves you. Everything else is logistics.”

My throat tightens. “She might say no.”

Liam studies me, something softer in his expression now. “Then you’ll know. But at least you’ll know.”

I nod, pressing my lips together, not trusting myself to speak.

Before I can say anything else, Coach Novak strides in, game face already locked in place.

“Ten minutes, gentlemen!”

The room shifts instantly, tension snapping back to the present. The Stanley Cup Final. The biggest game of our lives.

But even as I straighten, roll my shoulders, prepare for war?—

I know the real battle starts when the game ends.

I quickly finish taping my stick, my movements steadier now. Focus narrowing to the task at hand.

As we step onto the ice, the Garden roars like a living beast. Twenty thousand voices melding into one deafening wall of sound. Blue and red paint the stands, “Let’s Go Defenders” thundering down from every direction. I’ve played hundreds of games in this building. Tonight feels different.

Maybe it’s the weight of the moment. Maybe it’s knowing my daughter and mother-in-law are watching from the family box.

Maybe it’s because Erin’s here too.

I roll my shoulders, letting the familiar weight of my pads settle as we line up for the national anthem. My eyes have their own mind, drifting up to the family box. I spot Ris first—impossible to miss in her Defenders jersey bouncing between Erin and Galina. Then Jenna and Sophie, eyes glued on the players.

Erin’s wearing a Defenders jersey, and my heart seizes, then hammers against my ribs. Number 55 is blazed across her back. Not her brother’s 11, but mine. A statement. A choice. Like she’s marking herself as part of my world, even when she isn’t.

“I told you she’s here for you, Sokolov,” Liam mutters beside me. “If I wasn’t rooting for you, I’d be offended.”

I grunt in response, forcing my focus back to the ice. The prize isn’t just the Cup anymore. Hasn’t been since she walked into my house and turned my carefully controlled life upside down.

But first—sixty minutes of war.

The Knights are relentless. Forty minutes in, and we’re deadlocked at 2-2, neither team giving an inch.

My lungs burn, legs tight from battling in the corners, trying to contain their top line. Cooper, their star center, has been a menace all night, slipping through coverage like he’s got the puck on a string. Every shift, I’m in his face, cutting off his space, throwing my weight into him. But he keeps coming. Keeps finding ways to slip through.

I drop to one knee, blocking another shot, the puck hammering just above my knee pad. Pain flares, hot and sharp, but I shove it down. No room for weakness. Not tonight.

“Nice block,” Adam pants as we change on the fly. “Cooper’s looking for you now.”

Good. Let him come. Let him try.

The second intermission can’t come fast enough. I skate to the bench, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. The locker room is a mix of exhaustion and resolve—guys sprawled on the benches, sucking down water, stretching out cramping muscles.

Coach Novak stands at the front, hands braced on his hips, his voice a controlled growl. “Twenty minutes. You want your name on that Cup? You win in twenty fucking minutes.”

No one speaks. No one needs to.

I sit, rolling my shoulders, trying to keep my legs from locking up. Across the room, Liam catches my eye. He doesn’t say anything—just nods.

We hit the ice for the third, and they come out flying. They’re desperate—just like us. They cycle the puck low, working our defense, waiting for a crack.

I take a crushing hit along the boards, my teeth clacking together with the impact. I shake it off, plant my feet, and step up at our blue line just as their winger tries to cut inside.

Not tonight.

I bury him, sending him sprawling, the puck slipping free. The crowd explodes, feeding on the violence, the raw intensity of two teams leaving everything on the ice.

Somewhere in the madness, the lines change, fresh legs jumping over the boards. Vegas is pressuring hard, and we’re absorbing every hit, every shot, but then?—

Liam threads a perfect pass to Finn, who skates in alone and buries it top shelf before the goalie can react.

3-2.

The Garden detonates as the red light flares, twenty thousand voices crashing over me like a tidal wave. Finn’s mobbed at the boards, arms thrown wide in triumph. For the first time all night, we have the lead.

We skate back to the bench, breathless. Coach is barking orders, but his voice is almost drowned out by the arena’s frenzy. The tension is razor-sharp now—one mistake, and the Knights will make us pay.

They push back immediately, their forecheck suffocating. Every shift is a battle, every second stretching longer. I clear a rebound, take another hit, feel the sting of another blocked shot, but I don’t let up.

Four minutes left.

I intercept an overeager pass at our blue line, flick it to Liam. Join the rush.

Two-on-two.

Their defense backs up, respecting Liam’s speed. He looks left, sells the fake, then slides it back to me at the hash marks.

One chance.

The puck hits my tape like it belongs there. I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Just release.

Top corner. Blocker side.

The red light flashes.

4-2.

The Garden detonates, a tidal wave of sound rolling over me, shaking the ice beneath my skates.

Bodies slam into me—Liam first, then Finn, then the rest of the boys—hammering my back, screaming in my ear. But I barely feel them.

Because I’ve already made my decision.

My eyes snap to the family box, searching, locking onto her.

My glove comes off.

Fingers curl behind my ear. The universal call me gesture. But this time, it’s not just teasing. It’s not just playful.

It’s deliberate. It’s real.

Grinning, I lift my stick like a bow, drag it through the air, slow and deliberate—as if pulling music from silence. A cello. Her cello.

A celly just for her.

The arena erupts again, louder this time, the sound swelling to something near mythic. But there’s only one reaction I care about.

And there she is.

Mouth agape. My jersey stretched across her body, my number bold on her back, like she’s been mine all along.

Her hands fly to her mouth, eyes wide, shining, something fierce and wild and undeniable burning in them.

She leans forward against the glass, lips parted like she wants to say something, wants to scream something.

And for the first time in weeks, I breathe.

Next to her, Ris is jumping, bouncing, shouting—pure joy, pure excitement—but Erin is just staring at me. Seeing me. Understanding me.

I don’t look away.

“Finally!” Liam bellows in my ear, slapping my helmet so hard my vision rattles. “About damn time, you stubborn old goat.”

The grin that splits my face is unstoppable, like breaking through the surface after drowning.

“Figured I better score this time,” I shoot back, breathless. “Since you’re not pulling your weight.”

Liam laughs, shoving me toward the bench. “Just don’t waste any more time. I’m tired of both of your moping faces.”

Coach glares at us both, but there’s something almost like approval beneath the scowl. “If you two are done with teatime, we’ve still got a game to win.”

I nod, but my eyes drift back to Erin.

After my goal and that impulsive celly, the game shifts into pure survival mode. Vegas throws everything at us, desperation making them dangerous. Cooper nearly breaks through our defense, but I’m right on his heels, my legs burning as I chase him down.

He thinks he’s clear, but I read the move before he makes it—the slight hitch in his shoulder, the way his eyes flit toward the far post. I extend my stick, timing the poke check perfectly. Steel meets rubber with a satisfying vibration up my shaft as the puck skitters harmlessly away. The crowd goes ballistic, but it’s just white noise compared to the thundering of my own heart.

Three minutes left. Two.

Knights pulls their goalie. Six attackers against five defenders, the ice tilting in their favor. The puck pinballs around our zone, each clearing attempt thwarted, sent right back in. My lungs are on fire, but there’s no time for fatigue. Not with history on the line.

With forty seconds left, Cooper finds space in the slot. Perfect position. Perfect pass coming his way. A sure goal?—

I don’t think. I react .

My body launches forward, every muscle firing in unison. I become a wall, absorbing the full force of the shot.

A shockwave of pain explodes across my ribs. The world blurs—just heat, impact, the sharp crack of vulcanized rubber against my torso.

But the puck— the puck —is skidding toward center ice.

Nate reaches it first, flipping it into the empty net.

5-2.

The final nail in Vegas’ coffin.

The clock ticks down. Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten.

The arena vibrates, fans screaming, fists pounding against the glass.

The buzzer sounds?—

And the world erupts in chaos.

We’ve done it.

Stanley Cup Champions.

Gloves and sticks litter the ice as bodies crash together in celebration. Liam finds me first, his face a mask of pure joy as he crushes me against him.

“We did it, you crazy Russian bastard!” he shouts over the deafening roar. “We fucking did it!”

More bodies pile on—Adam, Finn, Nate—a tangle of sweaty, exhausted limbs vibrating with triumph. Coach appears, face split by a grin I’ve seen maybe twice in three years. He looks almost human, something like pride softening his perpetual scowl.

But my eyes are already searching, looking past the celebration to the stands.

To her.

She’s standing at the glass now, somehow having made her way down from the family box. My jersey stretched across her back as she presses against the barrier, a flash of blue against the sea of faces. Her eyes lock with mine, something bright and fierce in them that makes my heart slam against my ribs harder than any body check.

Wait for me , I think. Just wait.

I take a step toward her, desperate to close the distance, to reach her through the pandemonium, but the celebration swallows me whole. Bodies crash into me from all sides, arms locking around my shoulders, gloves slapping against my helmet.

“We fucking did it!” Adam roars, dragging me back into the fray.

“Champions, baby!” Finn tackles us both, nearly sending us sprawling.

I try to maneuver toward the glass where she stands watching, but it’s like swimming against a riptide. The sea of blue jerseys pulls me deeper into center ice, away from her. The commissioner appears, suits materialize, cameras flash. The Stanley Cup—seventy pounds of silver perfection—gleams under the lights, waiting for us.

I search for her over shoulders, between bodies, my eyes constantly tracking back to where I last saw her. She’s still there, but something’s changed. Sophie’s beside her now, tugging an O’Connor jersey—Liam’s number 11—over my 55. Family photos. Team protocol. Of course she needs to represent her brother for the official pictures.

My stomach twists as my number disappears beneath Liam’s, like watching some part of my claim on her being erased.

“Your turn, big guy,” Liam shouts, shoving the Cup into my hands.

The weight of it hits me—ten years of chasing this moment. But all I can think is that I’d trade it in a heartbeat to be standing in front of her right now, telling her all the things I’ve been too afraid to say.

I hoist the Cup overhead, the roar of the crowd washing over me like a physical force. My teammates slam into me, the celebration building to chaotic heights. When I look back toward the glass, the space where she stood is filled with other bodies, other faces.

“Families coming down!” someone shouts, and suddenly the ice is flooded with wives, girlfriends, children. Ris barrels across the ice in her tiny skates, Galina carefully following behind. More chaos. More bodies. More noise.

In the swirling mass of humanity, I catch flashes of her—copper hair, flushed cheeks, that smile that’s been haunting my dreams for weeks. But she’s always just out of reach, swallowed by the crowd, pulled into photos with Liam and Sophie, hugging her brother, being passed around like the Cup itself.

The frustration builds in my chest. So close. So damn close, and yet I can’t get to her. Can’t pull her away from this madness to tell her what I need to say.

Maybe it’s for the best. The words I need to say deserve more than a shouted confession over the roar of twenty thousand fans. They deserve privacy. Time. The truth of what I feel for her isn’t meant for the ice.

I’m finally ready to fight for what I want.

And what I want is her.

Not just tonight. Not just for the summer.

For always.