Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
T he hum of the arena was a low, vibrating tension, like the whole place was holding its breath. The bright overhead lights reflected off the polished ice, casting sharp shadows in the locker room where Travis sat, hunched over, lacing his skates with more force than necessary. His jaw was tight, his shoulders stiff, and the usual pre-game adrenaline that buzzed through his veins felt heavier today, like it was weighed down with something else.
Sarah.
He hadn’t heard from her. Not a text. Not a call. No hints. Nothing.
And it was killing him.
He was supposed to be focusing on one of the biggest game of his life—the finals. Some of their players were suspended for illegal activity. So much relied on him in the next few hours. The Stanley Cup was within reach, but all he could think about was whether she’d written the article. Whether she’d chosen him.
The locker room was buzzing around him, but the noise felt distant, like he was underwater. Guys were cracking jokes, slapping each other’s helmets, doing their usual rituals. But they kept their distance from him today.
They knew.
He was tense, and it wasn’t just about the game.
Logan passed by, giving him a knowing look, but Travis just stared at his skates, willing himself to shut out everything except the ice.
But before he could get into that mental zone, he noticed something odd.
Silence.
A strange hush had fallen over the locker room. He looked up, confused, and saw his teammates gathered around his locker, their faces a mix of smirks and wide-eyed grins.
“What now?” he muttered, pushing up from the bench.
When he got closer, he froze.
Taped to his locker door, right above his jersey, was a printed article.
Her article.
For a second, his heart nearly stopped. But then he saw the headline:
“The Heart Behind the Helmet: How Hockey Shapes Heroes On and Off the Ice”
His chest tightened as his eyes darted over the words.
It wasn’t just about the scandal. Sure, Sarah had covered the negative—the parties, the mistakes, the accountability—but the article wasn’t about tearing them down. It was about balance. About how hockey players weren’t just athletes—they were mentors, leaders, examples for the next generation.
And right in the center of it all was him.
She’d written about his work at the YMCA, how he volunteered with kids, how he used his platform to give back. She talked about the responsibility that came with being a role model and how Travis embodied that better than anyone she knew.
Travis felt his throat tighten, the weight in his chest lifting, replaced by something warmer, lighter.
She’d done it. She’d found a way to be true to herself and to him.
Jake clapped him on the shoulder, grinning. “Looks like someone’s got a fan.”
Logan smirked, nudging him. “Guess you’re more than just a pretty face, huh?”
Travis chuckled, shaking his head. For the first time all day, he felt centered.
He took a deep breath, pulling his jersey over his head. It was game time.
The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave as he stepped onto the ice, the sound vibrating in his chest. The arena was packed, a sea of faces, signs, and team colors. But Travis didn’t hear any of it.
He felt the ice under his skates, the familiar glide, the crisp chill in the air. He let it settle him, the chaos outside fading until all that mattered was the game.
The puck dropped, and the game was on.
Travis played like a man on fire. Every pass was sharp, every shot precise. He skated faster, hit harder, pushed deeper than he ever had. The team fed off his energy, their plays tight, their movements fluid.
But the opposing team was just as hungry.
The game was brutal, bodies slamming against the boards, sticks clashing in a symphony of controlled violence. Every goal was hard-earned, every save a heartbeat skipped.
By the third period, the score was tied. The tension in the arena was palpable, every fan on the edge of their seat.
And when the final buzzer sounded without a winner, it was clear:
Shootout.
Back in the bench, Travis’s heart pounded in his chest. Coach rattled off the lineup for the shootout, but Travis knew before his name was called.
It would come down to him.
He pulled his helmet off for a second, wiping the sweat from his brow, his mind racing. He tried to focus on the goalie, on his angles, on everything he’d practiced. But his thoughts drifted.
To Sarah.
She used to practice with him, standing in as the goalie when they were kids, her laughter echoing off the lake as he missed shot after shot. She’d tease him, but then she’d help him adjust his aim, give him tips, believe in him in a way no one else had.
And now, as he sat on the edge of the bench, waiting for his turn, he wondered if she was out there.
Was she watching?
When his name was called, he took a deep breath and skated to center ice. The noise of the crowd dimmed, the world narrowing to just him, the puck, and the goalie.
He placed the puck on the ice, gripping his stick tight.
And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her.
Sarah.
Sitting in the stands, near the glass, her eyes locked on him. She gave him a small, knowing smile, the kind that said I’m here. I believe in you.
Something in him clicked into place.
He took a deep breath, felt the ice under his skates, and remembered everything they’d practiced together.
He pushed forward, skating hard, the puck gliding effortlessly in front of him. Time slowed as he approached the goalie, his stick moving with precision, his body relaxed but focused.
And then, with a swift flick of his wrist, he sent the puck sailing right past the goalie’s glove.
Goal.
The arena exploded.
His teammates swarmed him, shouting, hugging, slapping his helmet. But through it all, his eyes found hers again in the crowd.
She was clapping, her eyes shining, and for a moment, it felt like the whole world had narrowed to just the two of them.
They’d won the game. But he’d won something even bigger.
Sarah and Tatum were waiting for him outside the locker room door. The guys all said things to him but he heard none of it. His eyes locked on Sarah and he couldn’t wait to get to her. Tatum stepped in front of her and held out a hand for a high five. “Good work Brother.”
He pulled her into a hug, his eyes finding Sarah again. “Thanks, you.”
When she released him, he reached for Sarah, tugged her sleeve and she flew into his arms. He held her, nuzzled his face into her hair, ran his hands up and down her back, breathed in the delicious smell of her and never wanted to leave. When they at last separated, he captured her lips in his, not willing to ever let go.
She responded with the same urgency. It had been too long. One week had seemed like an eternal nightmare with all they were worrying about and the silence of no communication. With a small noise from Tate, they pulled apart, but he kept his forehead on hers. “That was way too long to be apart.”
She nodded.
He laced their fingers and turned to Tate, not even a little bit apologetic about the huge display of affection. “Where should we go eat? I’m starved.”
They laughed and everything just seemed to fall into its perfect place, just like it was supposed to be.
He turned to Sarah. “I’m so proud of that article.”
“Cause it was all about him!” Tate jabbed him.
He felt his face heat. “Nah, that part was nice, but really. You did it. You included the whole truth. I’m so proud of that.”
Her eyes sparkled in response. “Thank you. It wasn’t easy. And I gave Jess my two weeks, but at least she agreed to run it.”
He nodded.
She grinned, something about her seeming more happy than he’d seen her in a long time. “And now, I just want some fries dipped in strawberry milk shake. I want Tate’s pickles and Travis’ tomatoes.”
“Burgers it is.” Travis opened his car door for Sarah and Tate climbed in back.
For this beautiful moment, everything was right in the world.