51. Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-One
AVA
I t’s been a few days since we flew back from Denver, just long enough for the nerves to settle into something deeper. A kind of charged stillness, like the whole city is holding its breath.
If they win tonight, they bring the Cup home.
The moment we park at the arena and step out, a wave of noise washes over us: music, chanting, the low rumble of pregame hype. I take Liam’s hand in one of mine and Noah’s in the other, feeling their small fingers curl around mine.
We move toward the entrance, and every few steps someone calls out, “Go SteelClaws!” or starts a spontaneous chant that the boys eagerly join in.
Inside, it’s somehow even louder. The hallways are lined with fans in jerseys, face paint, and glittering signs. Liam’s head swivels like he can’t decide where to look first. Noah’s eyes keep darting to every poster and flashing light.
We follow a staff member through the concourse toward the family section. As we walk, I keep catching snatches of the boys’ chatter.
“Do you think he can see us from the ice?”
“We have to yell extra loud so he hears us!”
When we finally reach our section, I spot a few of the other wives and girlfriends, including Lauren. She waves, offering a quick hug. There are other kids waving homemade signs, bouncing in their seats, or wearing oversized jerseys that nearly swallow them whole.
The boys barely notice, too busy scrambling toward the glass. They press their faces against it, their breath fogging the surface.
My hand drifts to my stomach without thinking. This moment here, tonight, with all of them, feels like more than just a game. It feels like stepping fully into the life we’re building.
“Look!” Liam shrieks, face squished against the glass. “That’s Daddy!”
Noah jumps next to him, bouncing on his toes. “I see him! I see him!”
I step closer, spotting Jackson’s unmistakable stride as he skates laps, helmet slightly tilted, focused and steady. Every move looks deliberate, every shot a quiet promise.
After a few final passes and shots, the players start drifting off the ice, and the boys chatter a mile a minute about seeing Daddy up close.
We settle in, and soon the lights drop, the arena music surges, and team introductions begin. The boys are on their feet before the puck even drops, signs clutched so tight their knuckles turn white.
The game starts like a lightning strike, an electric surge of sound and color that rolls through the entire arena.
Around us, other partners and families lean forward, already halfway standing, everyone caught in that electric playoff edge.
Miss Taylor sits just behind us, one hand lightly on each boy’s shoulder, her eyes wide and bright.
Jackson’s first shift takes him right across our line of sight. I watch the clean snap of his stride, strong and fluid, like he’s claiming every inch of ice for himself.
When he takes a big hit against the boards, Liam lets out a loud, startled yelp and clutches at my arm.
“Daddy’s okay,” I say quickly, dropping to his level and squeezing his fingers. “That’s part of the game.”
Liam nods, his breath coming fast, and Noah leans in closer, peeking around me.
“He got up so fast,” Noah whispers, awe threaded through his voice.
The game surges around us. The low roar of the crowd swelling and breaking like a tide, the crack of sticks echoing up to the rafters.
When Jackson scores, the entire arena explodes. The boys jump so high they nearly topple over the row in front of us. Miss Taylor whoops, her hands flying up, eyes glassy.
I’m on my feet before I even realize it, my hands pressed to my mouth, tears stinging at the corners of my eyes.
Down on the ice, Jackson’s stick lifts, his teammates crash into him at the boards.
Beside me, Liam screams, “Daddy did it! Daddy did it!” while Noah pounds his sign against the seat, face flushed and wild with joy.
I pull them both in, wrapping my arms around their shoulders, my forehead resting on their soft hair as we shout and laugh and shake together.
The game barrels forward like it’s on rails, every minute sharper, faster, louder.
Between periods, the boys chatter non-stop, replaying every move Jackson makes. Miss Taylor manages to corral them into eating a few bites of pretzel and sipping some water, but they’re too wired to really sit still.
When the final period starts, the scoreboard shows 3–2 with the SteelClaws in the lead, and each second feels like it stretches forever. The tension in the arena is electric, every fan perched on the edge of their seat.
The clock ticks down. Two minutes, one minute, thirty seconds. Every clear, every blocked shot feels like a miracle.
And then, at last, the buzzer sounds.
A split second of stunned silence, then the entire arena detonates into a roar so loud it feels like the world might crack open.
The boys scream at the top of their lungs, jumping up and down. Miss Taylor’s hands fly to her face, her eyes wide and shining.
I can’t even hear my own voice as I yell, my hands lifted high, tears streaming freely now.
On the ice, Jackson’s gloves go flying. His stick clatters to the surface as teammates swarm him, helmets coming off, arms wrapping around each other in pure, unfiltered joy.
They’ve done it. They’ve won the Cup.
The boys press their faces to the glass, palms flat against it.
“He did it! Daddy won! Daddy won!” Liam screams so loud his voice cracks.
When I look up again, Jackson is at the center of the ice, hair plastered to his forehead, mouth open in a wild, victorious shout. On the ice, gloves and sticks scatter like confetti. Jackson is immediately swallowed by a flood of his teammates, all crashing into a giant, euphoric hug.
After a few moments, the cluster at center ice shifts. A suited official steps forward, carrying the gleaming Stanley Cup. It shines under all the lights, towering and silver, every engraved name a testament to battles fought and won.
“There it is!” Liam shouts, pressing his face to the glass. “It’s HUGE!”
“It looks heavy!” Noah says, eyes round as saucers.
Jackson’s teammates slap him on the back, yelling for him to step forward. He does, sweat-soaked, face cracked wide open with a disbelieving, wild grin.
When he finally takes the Cup, the entire arena seems to tilt. His teammates shove him forward, and he hoists the Cup high above his head, strong arms steady, face turned up to the rafters.
He starts to skate slowly, the Cup lifted high. He pauses, turning toward our section, and for a split second, in that chaos, in that sea of movement…
I swear he looks right at us.
Miss Taylor is laughing and crying at the same time, her hands over her heart.
I can’t stop crying either. I don’t even try.
Eventually, the noise begins to shift. Still electric, but softer in waves, like the arena is finally catching its breath. Jackson disappears into the cluster of his teammates near the bench, the Cup still moving between hands.
Noah keeps slamming his palms against the glass, chanting, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” until his voice is nearly gone.
Liam echoes him, asking, “When can we see Daddy?”
“Remember what we talked about?” Miss Taylor asks them, smiling through her tears. “They’re going to come get us soon. We have to wait until they call us down.”
Both boys nod furiously, bouncing in place as they stare at the ice.
I wipe my eyes, trying to catch my breath. My chest feels full, every inhale wrapped around too many feelings to name.
Soon a staff member jogs up the aisle to our row, her headset crackling. “Family members can come down now,” she says.
Liam and Noah explode into motion, grabbing my hands and nearly dragging me forward. Miss Taylor laughs, gathering her bag and following behind us, her eyes crinkled with pride.
We make our way through the back halls, the boys practically vibrating beside me.
Finally stepping out onto the edge of the rink, I spot Jackson right away. His helmet is off, his hair damp and pushed back, cheeks flushed from the game. The second he sees us, his entire face changes. A light that starts in his eyes and spreads, cracking him open with pure, unstoppable joy.
The boys let go of my hands at the same time, sprinting forward without hesitation. Jackson drops to his knees just in time to catch them both, their small bodies crashing into him with unrestrained force.
I slow my steps, taking it all in. The roar of the arena, the scattered equipment on the ice, the echoes of laughter and shouts around us… it all blurs at the edges.
Other families pour onto the ice: small kids in oversized jerseys sliding across the surface, wives and girlfriends weaving through the crowd with shining eyes.
I catch a glimpse of Russo lifting Lauren off the ground in a wild spin, her laughter echoing even above the noise.
Another player scoops up his toddler, who immediately tugs at the Cup with chubby hands.
Jackson looks up at me, eyes locking onto mine over the boys’ shoulders. He holds them close and extends his free hand toward me.
My feet move before I can think, my heart pounding like it might crack open. When I reach them, Jackson’s hand closes around my wrist and he pulls me into his arms.
For a moment, there’s nothing else. Just the four of us huddled together on the ice, our breath mingling, our hearts crashing against each other’s ribs.
Jackson leans in, forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged and warm. “We did it,” he murmurs, his voice so raw it makes my ribs ache.
My hands tighten on his arms, my own voice shaking. “You did it,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. “We’re so proud of you.”
His gaze drops to my stomach, and he presses his forehead against mine again, a soft exhale passing between us.
The boys chatter and wriggle in his arms, still half yelling about the Cup, about the win, about everything they can’t quite put into words.
I hold them closer, feeling Jackson’s arm firm around my back.
And under the bright lights and the echoing roar, I realize:
This is our first victory together.
But it won’t be the last.