Chapter 26 #3
The Wolves came out flying. High pressure, aggressive forechecking, making the Raiders work for every inch of ice. Rook was everywhere, directing traffic with his stick and his voice, the captain thing written all over the way he moved.
“What's happening?” Poppy asked, leaning forward in her seat. “Why are they going so fast?”
“They're establishing tempo,” I said, keeping my eyes on the play. “Setting the tone early. The team that controls the first five minutes usually controls the game.” I pointed at the ice. “Watch number nineteen — that's Jace. He's got the puck on the wing, and he's looking for Rook in the slot.”
Jace carried the puck into the offensive zone with speed, his edges cutting hard as he maneuvered around a defender. The Raiders' defense collapsed toward him, and that's when he made the pass — a quick cross-ice feed that found Rook perfectly positioned between the hash marks.
Rook didn't even hesitate. One-timer, top shelf, bar down. The goalie didn't have a prayer.
The goal horn blared and the arena fucking erupted. The sound was physical, vibrating through my chest, and I was on my feet screaming before I'd consciously decided to stand.
Poppy was shrieking next to me, jumping up and down and grabbing my arm. “HE SCORED! ROOK SCORED!”
“I KNOW!” I yelled back, watching Rook get mobbed by his linemates. The celebration was pure joy — gloves off, helmets knocked sideways, everyone piling on.
Martin was hugging Martha, who was laughing and clapping. Talia had her phone out filming everything, and Micah was asking rapid-fire questions about what just happened.
“That was six minutes in,” I said when the noise died down enough to hear myself think. “That's huge. Early goal, home crowd going insane — that's momentum you can ride all night.”
“Explain what happened,” Micah demanded. “Like, specifically.”
I grinned. “Okay, so Jace drew two defenders to him because he's a goal-scorer and they had to respect the threat. That created space in the middle — the slot, where Rook was waiting. Jace saw it, made the pass, and Rook just fucking hammered it before the goalie could reset his positioning. Perfect execution.”
“That's so cool,” Poppy breathed.
The game restarted and the Wolves kept the pressure on. The Raiders were good but the Wolves were playing with the kind of confidence that came from knowing exactly who they were and what they could do.
Rook won another faceoff and sent it back to Tate on the point.
The play developed slowly this time, patient, the Wolves cycling the puck around the offensive zone and forcing the Raiders to chase.
I watched Rook drift toward the net, creating a screen, and when Tate wound up for the shot Rook tipped it perfectly.
The puck changed direction mid-flight, fooling the goalie completely, but it clanged off the post and out. The crowd groaned in unison.
“So close!” Poppy said.
“That's high-level shit,” I told her. “Tipping a shot like that requires insane hand-eye coordination. Most players can't do it.”
“But Rook can?”
“Rook can do pretty much everything.”
The first period continued with both teams trading chances.
The Raiders' best opportunity came midway through when their top line broke out on a two-on-one rush.
I watched Saint — the Wolves' goalie — read the play, tracking the puck carrier while staying aware of the pass option.
When the shot came, he was already there, glove up, making the save look routine even though it wasn't.
“Good save,” I said, mostly to myself.
“How do you know it was good?” Micah asked. “He just caught it.”
“Because he was already moving to where the puck was going before it got there. That's positioning. That's reading the shooter.” I leaned back in my seat. “A bad goalie reacts to the shot. A good goalie is already there.”
The period ended with the Wolves in the lead, and the energy in the building was electric.
The second period started with the same intensity. Both teams were playing playoff hockey now — harder hits, tighter checking, every puck battle fought like it mattered. Because it did.
The Wolves were cycling in the offensive zone again when I saw it developing. Rook took the puck behind the net, and the Raiders' defense collapsed on him, assuming he'd try to make a play. But Rook had seen something they hadn't — Cole drifting into the high slot, completely unmarked.
The pass came tape-to-tape, and Cole hammered a one-timer that beat the goalie clean.
Wolves two, Raiders nil.
“THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!” Martin bellowed, and several people in the surrounding seats started laughing.
“Rook's dad is very enthusiastic,” Talia observed.
“He really is,” I agreed, watching Rook skate past the bench and tap gloves with every single player. That was captain shit right there — making sure everyone felt part of the win.
The Raiders pushed back hard after that, and the game got physical. I watched Mace — the Wolves' enforcer — take a run at a Raiders forward who'd been taking liberties with the hits, and the two of them ended up in a shoving match that nearly turned into a full fight before the refs separated them.
“Are they allowed to just hit each other like that?” Poppy asked, sounding somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
“It's hockey,” I said. “Hitting is part of the game. As long as it's clean, it's legal.”
“What counts as clean?”
“Basically, don't hit someone from behind, don't target the head, and don't use your stick as a weapon. Everything else is fair game.”
She stared at the ice with wide eyes. “This sport is insane.”
“Yeah. It's the best.”
Midway through the second period, the Raiders got a power play when Dmitri took a penalty for hooking.
The Wolves killed it cleanly, Rook and Cole working together to keep the puck out of the defensive zone as much as possible.
I watched Rook read the passing lanes, intercepting a cross-ice feed and chipping it down the ice to burn time.
“That's smart hockey,” I said. “He's not trying to be a hero. Just doing his job and making it hard for them.”
The penalty expired and play went back to even strength. The pace picked up again, both teams pushing for an advantage, and that's when Rook made his move.
He picked off a pass at center ice, the Raiders caught in a bad line change with tired players on the ice. Rook had speed and space, and he used both. He hit the blue line with two defenders backing up, trying to cut off the angle.
I knew what he was going to do before he did it. The slight weight shift, the way he opened his hips — he was going to deke.
He went left, the first defender bit hard, and Rook cut back right so fast it looked like the defender was moving in slow motion. The second defender tried to recover, but Rook was already past him, in alone on the goalie.
The goalie came out to challenge, cutting down the angle, but Rook went high glove side and buried it.
Bar down. Textbook.
The building lost its fucking mind.
I was screaming, Poppy was screaming, Micah was on his feet with his hands over his head, and Talia was laughing at all of us while also screaming. Martin pulled me into a bear hug that lifted me off my feet, and when he set me down I was grinning so hard my face hurt.
“YOUR BOYFRIEND IS REALLY GOOD AT HOCKEY!” Poppy yelled at me.
“I KNOW!”
“LIKE REALLY, REALLY GOOD!”
“I KNOW!”
The celebration on the ice was even more chaotic than the first goal.
The entire bench was standing, banging their sticks against the boards, and Rook was getting absolutely mobbed by his teammates.
When he skated past the bench for the fist bumps, Coach grabbed his shoulder and said something that made Rook grin.
The second period ended three to nil, and the crowd was absolutely buzzing.
The third period started with the Raiders desperate. They came out throwing everything at the net, knowing they needed to score or the game was over. Saint made three huge saves in the first two minutes, and the Wolves weathered the storm.
Then the Wolves got a power play.
A Raiders defenseman took a penalty for tripping Jace, and the Wolves' special teams unit hopped over the boards. Rook lined up for the faceoff in the offensive zone, and I could see the Raiders' penalty kill setting up in a box formation, trying to clog the shooting lanes.
“What's happening now?” Micah asked.
“Power play,” I said. “The Wolves have an extra skater for two minutes because the other team has a guy in the penalty box. If they score here, it's basically game over.”
The puck dropped and Rook won it back to Tate on the point. The power play went to work. Tate moved the puck to Dmitri on the other point, who fed it down low to Jace. Jace cycled it back to Rook at the half-wall.
Rook held it, surveying the ice, and I watched the play develop like I was watching film. The defenders were focused on Jace and Cole in front of the net, the biggest threats. That left Tate open at the point.
Rook fed him the puck.
Tate wound up and unleashed a slap shot that had to be going ninety miles an hour. Rook had already moved to the front of the net, and he got his stick on it — a perfect deflection that changed the puck's trajectory just enough to beat the goalie.
Four to nil.
Hat trick for the captain.
The arena absolutely exploded. Hats started raining onto the ice — hundreds of them, thrown by fans in celebration of Rook's three goals. The Wolves players were piling onto Rook again, and even from the VIP section I could see him laughing.
“What are they doing?” Poppy asked, pointing at all the hats on the ice.
“Hat trick tradition,” I explained, my throat tight with emotion I wasn't ready to name. “When a player scores three goals in one game, fans throw their hats on the ice. It's good luck.”
“That's so many hats.”
“That's because everyone in this building loves him,” Talia said, looking at me with a grin that said she meant more than just the crowd.
I couldn't even chirp back because she was right. The crowd was chanting Rook's name, the building was shaking with noise, and I was watching the man I loved celebrate with his team while thousands of people screamed their appreciation.
The final ten minutes of the game were pure clock management. The Wolves played conservative, protecting the lead, and the Raiders couldn't find any answer. When the final buzzer sounded and the scoreboard showed 4-0, the celebration started all over again.
Players piled onto each other on the ice, the crowd was chanting, and my siblings were hugging me and each other and probably some strangers in the general vicinity.
I just stood there watching Rook celebrate with his team — watching him raise his stick to salute the crowd, watching him skate over to tap gloves with Saint, watching him be exactly who he'd always meant to become — and felt the weight of everything that had happened over the past few weeks finally settle into something that looked like a future.
My siblings were safe. Rook had chosen me in front of everyone who mattered. We'd just watched the Wolves demolish their playoff opponents. And for the first time in longer than I could remember, I had enough hope and joy and love in my life that I didn't know what to do with it all.
“This is the best day ever,” Poppy said, hugging me so hard I had to catch my balance.
And watching Rook skate a victory lap while the crowd screamed his name, I had to agree.