50. Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty
JACKSON
T he sharp scent of fresh ice cuts through the tunnel as I stand there, helmet in hand, pulse thudding in my ears.
It’s loud. The low rumble of the crowd bleeds down through the concrete, sticks tapping against the boards, the thud of skates against rubber mats.
I flex my fingers around my stick, roll my shoulders carefully.
The last few weeks flicker through my mind in a fast, jagged montage: the injury, the forced games on the sideline, the slow climb back.
Missing two Final games nearly broke me.
Not just physically, but in that deep, clawing place only athletes know.
But tonight, I’m back.
I close my eyes for a second, inhaling slow, letting the edge of nerves and adrenaline slice through me clean.
I think of the boys, probably glued to the TV back home with Miss Taylor.
I think of Ava in the suite right now, her eyes on me.
The thought of her there steadies me more than anything else ever has.
Coach’s voice echoes from down the line, a bark of final directions, but most of it blurs past me. My focus tunnels in: puck drop, first shift, first hit, first goal.
Russo slams his stick on the wall beside me and leans close. “Bout damn time you laced ‘em up again,” he shouts over the noise, a huge grin splitting his face.
I snort, shoving his shoulder lightly with my glove. “Try not to get yourself benched in the first five,” I fire back, my voice low but steady.
He barks a laugh and skates ahead, disappearing into the flood of noise and light as the announcer starts calling the starters.
I slide my helmet on, feeling the familiar snug pull, the chin strap snapping into place. My heartbeat syncs with the bass thump of the pregame music vibrating the walls.
And then I step forward.
I’m back. And tonight I’m not leaving anything on the ice.
The first shift hits me like a shot of pure adrenaline straight to the veins.
My blades dig into the ice, that first push surging through every muscle that’s been screaming to move since I was cleared. The boards rush past in a blur of white and blue, the puck snapping against my stick like an old friend finally coming home.
There’s a split-second hitch, a ghost-pain flicker through my shoulder, but then instinct barrels past it and everything snaps back into place, as natural as breathing.
I take a hit early—hard, right along the boards. It rattles every rib but misses my shoulder. I bounce up, teeth gritted around my mouthguard, and skate straight back into the play. The trainer’s eyes find me. I give a quick nod and keep moving.
The puck slides to my linemate, and he sends it across the slot. It’s a perfect, clean pass. I don’t think, just bury it.
The red light flares behind the net.
The noise explodes.
We’re up by one now. It’s a razor-thin edge, but enough to send a fresh wave of energy surging through the bench.
I don’t hear my own shout over the roar. I don’t even feel Russo’s glove crack against my helmet in celebration… I just see the guys crashing into the boards, sticks raised, the whole bench surging to its feet.
On the bench, I drop onto the seat, chest heaving. Coach smacks my back as he moves past, a quick, firm approval that sends another jolt of adrenaline through me.
Russo collapses beside me again, still laughing.
“About damn time,” he pants, relief evident in his grin as he raps my helmet once more.
“Shut up,” I growl, but I’m grinning too.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, sweat dripping to the floor. Beneath all the noise, the heavy breathing, and the sting of the ice, a quiet promise thrums inside me.
The third period starts like a gunshot. The other team pressing hard, their desperation clawing at every loose puck.
Every line change feels faster, rougher, like time is both stretching and collapsing around me. My legs scream, lungs burn, but that steel-edged focus holds me steady.
Russo takes a hard hit along the wall, and I bark out his name without even realizing it, ready to jump in. He pops up, gives me that toothy grin, and my pulse slams back into rhythm.
We’re holding the lead by one, but it’s thin as paper. Every shift feels like a fight for air.
I take another rush down the ice, eat a slash to the wrist that’ll bruise like hell tomorrow, but I keep moving, keep feeding the puck forward.
The clock winds down, minute by brutal minute. Coach leans over the boards, shouting final assignments, eyes burning.
When the last buzzer finally splits the air, it feels like the roof might rip right off the arena.
I slam my helmet against Russo’s, adrenaline still crackling through every nerve.
“We did it,” he roars, voice ragged.
Guys swarm around us: gloves smacking shoulders, sticks banging helmets in quick, chaotic celebration. The noise is pure chaos and relief all at once.
In the tunnel afterward, the guys keep yelling, every shout echoing like a war drum.
We’re one win away from the Cup.
The tunnel buzz fades as we spill into the locker room, which quickly turns into a cramped, humid cave of sweat-soaked gear and steam curling off shoulder pads.
Russo launches himself onto the bench, still grinning like he might explode. “One more!” he yells, pumping his fist toward the ceiling.
I toss my gloves into my stall, my chest still heaving from the rush. Coach is making his rounds, clapping guys on the back, barking half-sentences: part praise, part ‘next-game’ reminders.
I sink down, elbows propped on my knees, letting the moment soak into my bones. My head drops forward, sweat dripping to the floor in steady beats.
My phone buzzes from the pocket of my jacket hanging nearby. I fish it out with stiff fingers.
Greg: Hell of a game. Good to see you back out there.
I stare at the message for a second, my pulse ticking up.
Greg doesn’t know yet. But he will. Soon.
I type back quickly, my fingers clumsy from the leftover adrenaline.
Me: Thanks, man. Means a lot. We should get together soon.
I lean back, exhaling slow.
Russo is yelling something at the rookies, another guy’s tape ball sails across the room, Coach’s voice cuts in and out, but I barely hear any of it.
All I can think about is her. The boys. Everything we’ve built since she ran out of her wedding and into my arms. How each small step, each messy, terrifying leap led us here.
A wave of certainty rolls through me so strong it nearly knocks the breath out of my lungs.
I want this forever.