Chapter 29 Theo
Theo
I was already chasing the play when my shoulder reminded me who was really in charge.
The puck skittered along the wall in our end, an Oilers winger leaning his weight into me, trying to wedge his hips between mine and the boards.
I dug in anyway. Legs burned. Breath came ragged through the cage.
The tape Reese had wrapped around my shoulder felt like a suggestion more than a solution.
I jammed my stick blade under his, knocked the puck loose, and kicked it back to Hunter in the crease.
“Set!” Hunter yelled.
Too late to think. I turned, lifted my stick one-handed, and got just enough of their center’s shot to change its angle. The puck slapped into Hunter’s blocker instead of his chest. He smothered it. Whistle. My arm sent a warning straight through my teeth.
I skated past the net, jaw locked, eyes forward. No bench glance. No looking for Reese. If I saw her watching me like that again, calculating damage, I’d lose my edge.
Next shift, Oilers pressed harder. They came in waves, short passes through traffic, bodies finishing every check.
My lungs worked like bellows that had sprung a leak.
I pinched at the blue line when Mason dumped it in, kept the puck alive long enough for Grayson to swoop in and throw it on net.
Their goalie kicked out a pad. Rebound popped loose.
Shawn crashed the crease, hacking at it, but it stayed out.
I backchecked on instinct more than speed, reached to disrupt a cross-ice feed, and felt the joint protest. White flashed behind my eyes. I still got enough wood on it. The pass fluttered. Hunter swallowed the follow-up.
“Nice stick,” he said as I coasted by.
I nodded once. That was all I had.
The crowd stayed loud, restless, the sound a constant pressure against my helmet.
Game Seven had everyone wired tight. Every hit drew a reaction.
Every whistle got an argument. The Oilers bench chirped nonstop, trying to bait us into something stupid.
Tucker laughed in one guy’s face after a mindless shove and skated away.
Midway through the first, I jumped into the rush when Mason cut wide. He pulled two defenders with him. I slid into the high slot, stick ready. He feathered the pass back. I one-timed it without thinking. Pain ripped through my shoulder on contact, hot and blinding.
But the shot still got through. Their goalie flashed leather and snagged it.
I bent at the waist on the way to the corner, pretending to fix my skate. Breath came out in short bursts. I counted them. Four. Five. Enough.
Oilers rebounded with speed. I got caught flat-footed when a winger chipped it past me and tried to spin off my hip. He drove me into the boards. The impact sent a spike straight down my arm. My legs went watery, and I slid to a knee before I could stop it.
The ref’s hand stayed down. Play went on.
I shoved myself upright and limped to the bench on the fly, cursing under my breath. The gate opened. I fell onto the boards instead of sitting.
“You good?” Coach asked.
“Yep,” I said, because anything else would turn into a conversation I didn’t have time for.
He leaned in, eyes flicking to my shoulder, then back to my face. He said nothing. Just clapped my helmet once and sent the next line out.
The rest of the period blurred into grit and survival. I broke up a two-on-one with a desperate poke. I boxed out a net-front pest until the whistle. I took a clearing attempt off the shin and shoved it down ice anyway. When the horn finally sounded, the scoreboard stayed clean. 0–0.
I skated straight for the tunnel. Reese intercepted me halfway, hand already on my elbow.
“No,” I muttered.
She walked with me anyway, fingers light but unyielding. “Sit.”
I did as I was told. She peeled back the tape enough to check swelling, her mouth set in that flat line that meant she was deciding how mad to be later.
“You asked,” she said quietly. “I said no. This is still no.”
“I know.” My voice came out rough. “I’m not asking again.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. There was a lot packed in that look. Worry. Frustration. Something steadier underneath.
“Then we manage,” she said. She pressed a fresh cold pack against the joint and held it there. No rush in it. We both understood I’d be doing this the legal way—no blockers—and I was good with that.
All I wanted was to leave my heart on that ice tonight, and that’s what I was doing.
That carried me back onto the ice.
Second period started with Oilers trying to break us early. They dumped deep, chased hard, finished every hit. I took a bump behind our net that rattled my teeth. Got the puck out anyway. Hunter bailed me out twice in the opening minutes, sliding post to post, pads thudding, glove flashing.
Then we flipped the script.
Mason stole a puck at their blue line, shoulder down, legs churning. He drove wide, pulled the defense with him, and shoveled it to Grayson trailing late. Grayson didn’t hesitate. He snapped it far side. Net rippled.
The bench erupted. I was the first over the boards on the next shift, pounding my stick on the ice, yelling myself hoarse.
“Again!” Tucker barked. “Stay on it.”
We did. Forecheck got meaner. Passes got crisper. Oilers started to chase instead of dictate. I pinched at the line and kept a clearing attempt in, sliding it down the wall to Shawn. He fed it low. Scramble at the crease. Sticks everywhere. The puck squirted loose.
I lunged for it on instinct.
The shot came from the point before I could brace. It hit me square in the shoulder.
Everything went white.
I remember the sound of it more than the pain. A hollow thud, like someone hitting a door with a fist. My legs folded. I went down hard, sliding on my side, gasping. The whistle blew late.
Hands were on me immediately. Tucker. Grayson. A few others.
“Stay with us,” Tucker said, his voice right in my ear.
I nodded because that seemed easier than talking. The pain rolled in after, deep and nauseating. I fought it, focused on the pattern of my breathing, the scrape of ice under my gloves as they pulled me up.
I made it to the bench under my own power. Reese was there, eyes sharp now, all softness gone.
“Helmet off,” she said. She checked my pupils, fingers steady against my jaw. “Talk to me.”
“I blocked it,” I said. “Still here.”
She held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then she nodded. “You’re done blocking shots.”
I huffed a laugh that hurt all over. And yet, I’d never felt more alive. “Tell that to them.”
She didn’t smile. She pressed her forehead briefly to my helmet, just long enough that I felt it. Just long enough that the noise fell away.
“Finish it,” she said. “Then we deal.”
That did something to me. It settled the noise in my head and put everything back in its lane.
Next shift, we scored again.
Hunter kicked a rebound out to Mason, who fired it up ice to Landon streaking through center. Landon gained the zone, drew both defenders, and dropped it back to Shawn. Shawn wired it high. Two nothing.
I slammed my stick against the boards, shoulder screaming, grin breaking free anyway.
Oilers pushed back, desperate now. Late in the period, they worked it high to low, looking for a tip. I boxed out their big center, took a cross-check for my trouble, and still got my stick under his. The puck deflected wide. Hunter covered it.
As the horn sounded for the second intermission, I sagged against the glass, sweat dripping off my nose, arm on fire.
Reese was there again, towel over my shoulders, hand warm at the back of my neck.
“You’re still moving,” she said. “That matters.”
I nodded, leaning into that touch more than I meant to.
We skated off in the lead, and for the first time all night, it felt like the ice might tilt our way.
The third opened with Oilers teeth bared and no patience left.
They came straight at us off the faceoff, dumping pucks behind our net and finishing every check. My shoulder throbbed with each stride, the joint heavy and uncooperative. I told it to hold. Told it again.
The puck rimmed around the boards on my side. I went to corral it, misjudged the bounce, and the pain bit hard enough that my hands lagged a beat. The puck skipped my blade and slid right to an Oilers winger waiting like he’d ordered it.
“Fuck,” I said, already turning.
He snapped it low. Hunter kicked it out with his pad. Rebound bounced straight back into the slot. Their center buried it before I could close.
2–1.
The building surged in response, noise crashing down on us from every direction. I stood there a fraction too long, staring at the red light, then forced myself to move. The bench door opened. Coach pointed at me, then at the ice.
“Next shift,” he said. No anger. Just belief.
Tucker skated by and smacked my shin pad. “Shake it off. We’re good.”
I nodded once. That mistake sat heavy, but it didn’t get to stay. There was too much game left.
Play turned ugly after that. Scrums at every whistle. Sticks tangled. Gloves in ribs when the refs weren’t looking. I took a hit along the wall that sent a jolt straight through my arm and down my side. My teeth clicked together. I stayed upright.
Midway through the period, I got tangled with their captain in front of the crease. He leaned his weight into my shoulder, smiling under his visor like he could feel the weak spot. I shoved back with my hips instead, used my legs, and tied up his stick until Hunter covered.
“Nice,” Hunter said, breathless.
We killed a minor of our own. Then another. Clock kept bleeding. Oilers pressed harder, sensing blood.
Late in the third, with just under four minutes left, Grayson clipped a guy trying to clear the zone. Ref’s arm went up.
Power play, Oilers.
Bench went quiet. Coach gathered us in tight.
“Clear lanes,” he said. “Bodies in front. Trust each other.”
I took my spot near the crease, shoulder screaming, stick low. The puck moved fast. East to west. One touch passes meant to pull us apart. I dropped to a knee to block a seam, got my stick on it, and sent it bouncing to the corner.
Crowd roared approval. Oilers kept it in.
Shot from the point. Tip in front. Hunter kicked it out. Another shot came immediately. This one threaded through traffic and caught net.
2–2.
Everything stopped for a beat. Then the place erupted again, split clean down the middle between hope and panic.
I skated to the bench, lungs burning, arm useless at my side. Reese was there, eyes locked on me, hands clenched around the towel she’d been folding and refolding all night.
“Look at me,” she said.
I did.
“You’re still here,” she said. “You’re doing great. We need you in this just a little longer, okay? Just a little longer.”
I nodded. “I’ve got it.”
She searched my face, then reached up and squeezed my good arm.
“That’s all,” she said. “Go.”
The final minutes crawled and flew at the same time. Chances both ways. Mason rang iron on a break. Hunter robbed their winger with a glove save that brought everyone to their feet. My shoulder went numb, then came back screaming again. I welcomed it. Pain meant I was still in this.
The horn sounded with the score tied.
Overtime.
Sudden death sat heavy on my chest as we lined up. One mistake would end everything. One play would finish a season of heartbreak.
Coach leaned in. “Short shifts. Simple plays. And for the love of all that is holy, all the heart you boys can muster.”
I pushed off for my first OT shift and nearly stumbled. My legs protested and my shoulder howled, but I found my stride anyway.
The Oilers controlled early. Shot from the slot. Hunter stopped it. Rebound. I chopped it clear and chased it myself, refusing to coast. Mason joined me, took the puck, gained the zone. He circled back, waiting for help. I slid into the high slot, stick ready, vision narrowing to puck and space.
Pass came. I hesitated, pain flaring, then snapped a wrist shot anyway. Their goalie kicked it aside. Landon crashed the crease, jabbing. Whistle blew.
Our bench buzzed with an energy I could feel through the boards. Guys leaned over the rail, shouting encouragement that blurred into one steady force.
Next shift, Oilers nearly ended it. Breakaway off a bad change. Hunter came out big, stacked the pads, and stoned him. I slammed my stick on the ice in thanks, shoulder screaming in protest.
Clock ticked down. The seconds felt carved out of stone.
With under a minute left, we forced a turnover in neutral ice. Shawn chipped it deep. I chased, dug it free along the wall with my skates, then fed it back to Grayson pinching hard.
“Middle!” Mason yelled.
Grayson sent it low. Mason cut across the crease, dragging two defenders with him. The puck squirted loose behind the net.
I was there without remembering how I got there.
I scooped it onto my blade and wrapped it around the post before my body could argue.
Red light.
For a heartbeat, nothing registered. Then the sound hit. A wall of noise that lifted me off my skates as bodies slammed into me from every side. Helmets knocked. Gloves grabbed. I laughed and shouted and cried all at once.
The Stanley Cup. The fucking Stanley Cup.
Guys poured off the bench. Coach was there, eyes wet, hauling me into a crushing hug before shoving me toward the boards.
“Go,” he said, voice breaking. “Go get her, you big goon.”
I didn’t look anywhere else. Reese stood just beyond the gate, hands over her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks.
I crossed the ice on legs that barely worked. She ran the last few steps and collided with me, arms locked around my neck. I held her with my good arm and didn’t let go.
“We did it,” I said into her hair.
“We did,” she said, kissing me hard, again and again, salt and joy and relief all mixed together.
Around us, the team gathered, laughing, crying, shouting. The Cup came out, silver catching the lights, heavy and real and finally ours.
I pressed my forehead against hers, then kissed her once more as the roar rolled on.
We were champions.