36. Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Six
JACKSON
T he crowd’s already thundering by the time I step onto the ice.
Spotlights sweep across the rink in wide, deliberate arcs, catching the edge of every stick, every helmet, every bead of sweat. My breath fogs under the lights as I skate past the bench, circling once to ground myself.
Game 6. Home ice.
If we win tonight, we’re going to the Stanley Cup Final.
I don’t need the scoreboard to feel what’s at stake. It’s in the energy pulsing through the boards, in the low hum of my legs from morning skate, the way the noise fades at the edges when focus kicks in.
But even as I move through warmups, my thoughts drift.
Ava texted a few hours ago; said she was staying home tonight. Just tired.
But she’s been dragging lately. Not just tired. Worn down.
Tonight, I hope she’s curled up in a blanket, not hunched over her laptop running seating charts for that gala.
Knowing her, it’s probably both.
Russo skates up beside me, tapping his stick against mine.
“Let’s lock it down early, huh?”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing focus back to the ice. “Let’s shut this thing down.”
He grins and peels off, flipping the puck between his skates as he joins the line for rush drills. I follow, muscle memory taking over, blades cutting clean as I drive down the left wing.
Coach Barrett’s voice cuts through the din from the bench. “Crisp passes! Head up!”
I fire the puck top shelf, catch it on the rebound, and swing back around to reset.
The rhythm helps. Keeps me in my body. In the game.
Warmups wind down. The announcer’s voice echoes as they call starting lines. I hit the bench, gloves secure, heart steady.
The crowd’s on fire. Every seat full, the place vibrating with energy.
And back home, I imagine Ava with the boys, wrapped in a blanket, watching this unfold.
That thought centers me more than any pep talk ever could.
The puck drops and everything else fades.
Noise blurs into white. Movement sharpens. I lean into the first shift like I’ve been waiting all season for this exact moment.
New York comes out fast, aggressive. We expected that.
But we’re faster. Stronger. Cleaner.
Russo wins the draw and swings it back. I catch the pass on the fly and cut across the blue line, eyes scanning. Their defense closes fast, but I see an opening, flip the puck behind the net, and peel wide as Russo chases it down.
We nearly get one early. Stevens rings it off the glass, but nothing lands.
We regroup and keep the pressure up. I shift off, lungs burning, and drop onto the bench next to Russo. Coach Barrett leans in, barking a quick adjustment.
“They’re pinching harder than usual. Keep the weak side open,” he says. “They’re trying to bait you into traffic.”
I nod, grabbing a sip of water, sweat already prickling beneath my pads. Russo taps his stick against the boards in response.
The next shift’s tighter. More physical. New York’s top line pushes back hard, bodies flying against the glass, blades cutting sharp. I catch a hard hit in the corner, but still send the puck up the boards before I’m fully upright.
The adrenaline kicks in harder. Every pass feels cleaner. Every collision fiercer.
Midway through the period, we finally break through.
It starts with a turnover near the red line. Russo picks off a pass and launches forward with me trailing. I see it building. Their defense scrambles.
Two-on-one.
Russo fakes left, drags the puck, then flips it low across the crease.
Stick blade flush against the ice, I tap it in.
Goal light flashes. Horn blares.
And the arena erupts.
I let the roar hit me for a second as the boys mob me by the glass. Russo bangs his helmet against mine.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouts.
I grin and skate back to the bench.
Coach claps my shoulder. “Nice finish, Hart.”
I nod once. “We’re not done yet.”
Not even close.
Second period, they come back swinging, trying to shift momentum. But we’re ready. We match them stride for stride, body for body.
By the midpoint, it’s still 1–0.
They get called for tripping Russo. The ref’s arm goes up, the whistle blows, and just like that, we’re on the power play.
We rotate lines again. We clamp down. The puck moves end to end, quick and brutal. No whistles. No breaks. Just pure, unrelenting pace.
Three minutes left in the period. Stevens fires a slapshot, and Russo tips it in. Beautiful. Precise.
The crowd roars. I yell louder.
We head into second intermission up 2–0.
Still a whole period left to go.
But now we can taste it.
The third period starts like a gunshot.
New York comes out like a lit fuse. Bodies flying, shots raining down, desperate and explosive. Every inch of ice turns into a war zone.
For the first five minutes, we’re scrambling—lines bending under pressure, struggling to clear. I get stuck out too long, legs burning as I chase a winger down the boards. He circles the net and snaps off a wrister that clangs off the crossbar.
Too close.
I dive for the rebound, chip it to neutral ice, and use the momentum to stagger back to the bench. Coach is yelling. Russo too. Everyone’s locked in.
Next shift, we adjust. Play smarter.
O’Connor blocks a slapshot off the shin and doesn’t flinch. Stevens lays out on a breakaway, forcing their center wide. We’re giving everything. Leaving it all out here.
With eight minutes left, they finally break through—a messy rebound in front, bouncing twice before a stick finds it low, glove side.
2–1.
Still up. But barely.
TV timeout. We huddle. Coach’s voice cuts through the noise—calm, clipped.
“You know how to win games like this. Close it out.”
When the puck drops, we grind. Shift by shift. Dump and chase. Tie up sticks. Block everything.
They pull their goalie with ninety seconds left.
Empty net. Six attackers.
The pressure ratchets up.
One shot—blocked. Another—glove save.
Thirty seconds. One more faceoff.
I line up, breath burning. Sweat stings my eyes. The ref drops the puck.
Russo wins it. O’Connor clears it.
The puck bounces, bounces… kisses the post on the empty net and rolls wide.
The crowd groans. So do I.
But it doesn’t matter.
New York makes one last push. We close them out against the boards.
The horn blares.
The arena explodes.
We’re going to the Stanley Cup Final.
I get mobbed by the guys, our gloves and helmets flying, sticks clattering to the ice. Russo grabs me in a bear hug and nearly lifts me off the ground.
“You’re a machine, Jacks!” he yells in my ear.
I barely hear him over the roar. But I nod, grinning through the chaos, still catching my breath.
The team floods the ice. Cheers, slaps on the helmet, shouts that blur into noise.
But even as we celebrate, my mind pulls somewhere else.
Home.
I picture the living room: the couch, the blanket, the soft glow of the TV. Liam probably yelling something about how I skated faster than a superhero. Noah trying to mimic the goal with his mini stick.
And Ava.
I didn’t think I could want this more than I already did. But tonight, I played for them.
For her.
And knowing they’re at home, watching this, seeing it happen…
That makes this win everything.