EPILOGUE
Good luck
There’s nothing like the energy of a home crowd at a playoff game, and this being the last one in the battle for the Cup has the volume turned up a few clicks higher. Florida won it last year, and now they’re back to defend their title. No pressure.
I’ve made it to every game. I’d already worked with Kendra to clear my schedule before Miles even asked if I could. I kissed him and told him it was already done.
I know what it feels like to get the thing you’ve worked your whole life for. Watching him get closer and closer to it is somehow even more satisfying.
Bodies collide into the plexiglass in front of us, none of them Miles, but I still scoot to the edge of my seat. Mia’s leg bounces at my side, and Hannah grips the armrest on my other.
It’s the start of the third period, and the Saints are up by one, but I’ve watched enough hockey this past year to know how fast things can change. I don’t let myself trust the lead until the final horn. Miles’s refusal to jinx anything has clearly rubbed off on me.
The first fifteen minutes of the third are tight, both teams trading possession, neither willing to give an inch. Every time the puck gets near Ilya’s crease, I grip Mia’s arm, and every time it clears I let go and take a breath.
Then, with just under five minutes left on the clock, Dominic gets the puck at the blue line, fakes a shot, and slides it across to Ryan. He cuts hard toward the net, then sends it back to Easton at the last second in one of those plays that looks too clean to be real.
I stand as the puck leaves Easton’s stick—
It’s in. The building loses its mind, along with me, Hannah, and Mia, who are jumping up and down, arms tangled together, barely keeping each other upright.
A man whistles through his fingers behind us, loud enough to cut through the cheers filling the arena.
“That’s fucking right!” Mia screams. Hannah laughs, or at least I think she does from the tilt of her head and the grin on her face, but I don’t hear it.
We’re up by two now, but I don’t sit back down.
The other team pushes hard, pulling every trick they have, but the Saints hold. Ilya is a wall. Every shot that gets through, he smothers. He doesn’t even give them a chance at a rebound.
With four minutes left, Florida pulls their goalie and sends out the extra attacker. Every loose puck becomes a scramble, every hit comes harder, every clear from our zone an answer to my muttered pleas to whoever’s listening.
By the time the clock hits three minutes, I’ve stopped making any sound at all. I’m not sure I’m even breathing. Gasps and relieved exhales are my only source of air.
With two minutes left, Miles gets slammed into the boards on the far side of the rink. The crack of it carries across the ice.
I only free my bottom lip from my teeth when he gets up and shakes it off. But my heart is still in my throat when the face-off is called and the ref points to the circle directly in front of us.
Miles skates into position.
He’s right there. Close enough that I can read the 43 on his sleeve, see the set of his shoulders, the tick in his jaw before he dips his chin.
Then he turns his head. His eyes lock on mine instantly, as if he knew exactly where to find me.
He winks.
I laugh, startled, and feel that familiar flip in my chest. I press my hand to the glass.
I don’t know if they’re going to win, but I’m certain of one thing. Him.
I’ve never been more sure of anything.
The building is so loud the noise feels physical, pressing against my chest and pounding at my temples. But all I hear are my own thoughts. Winning. And her.
Game 7 and we’re up by two. Fifty-eight seconds, and the Stanley Cup is ours.
I’ve been playing hockey since I was four years old. Twenty-five years, and it comes down to less than a minute.
Coach calls a timeout, and we crowd the bench. I look around at my teammates—Fox with his hands on his knees, Volk squirting water into his mouth behind us, Helm, for once in his life, not saying a word. Logan catches my eye and can’t hold back his grin.
There’s nobody I’d rather be standing on this ice with.
I think I say something. Maybe it’s don’t let up, or stay focused, or we’re bringing this home. I can’t be sure.
The huddle breaks, and I let myself steal one more look into the stands.
I find her in three seconds flat. She’s on her feet with the rest of the crowd, wearing my jersey and the WAG jacket she helped design this year, KING stretched across her shoulders.
Her gaze catches mine and does what it’s done all night: grounds me.
Fills in the places that would still be empty without her.
Her whole face breaks into a smile. Not the one she saves just for me. She’s way too excited for anything close to coy, but I love it all the same.
I’ve lost count of how many she’s given me this past year. Somewhere in the millions, I’d guess.
She mouths you’ve got this, then I love you.
I know both are true. I know that if the next fifty-eight seconds go to shit, she’ll still be looking at me the same way.
I tap my stick four times on the ice and skate back into position outside the circle.
I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. Except her. Tonight, I might just get both.
We win the draw. Knolls flicks it back to me, and I take my time. Both sides are playing it safe, burning the clock, nobody doing anything stupid. We need to keep possession. Not turn it over. Not give them a chance to score.
Thirty-one.
They bring the puck into our zone, but we defend the net like our lives are on the line, not the Stanley Cup. It’s practically the same thing.
Fourteen.
Fox intercepts a pass at the blue line and holds it—
Ten seconds, and they stop pushing. They know it’s over. We know it’s over. The whole building knows it’s over.
I let myself believe it when Fox keeps the puck on his tape and Florida stops playing completely.
For the first time tonight, I let myself picture it. The horn. The Cup. Her face.
Five.
Helm grabs my jersey.
Four.
Kettler’s hand lands on my shoulder.
Three.
Two.
One.
The horn sounds.
Volk drops his stick and raises both hands in the air, the widest smile I’ve ever seen on his face. Fox and Logan crash into me from either side, and we drift toward him. The rest of the team flies off the bench and collides with us.
The ice fills with abandoned gloves, sticks, helmets. Noise rushes back in all at once—the crowd, my teammates, someone screaming directly into my ear. I grab whoever’s closest, and I think I yell too.
We fucking did it.
The reality of it hits me, and the first place I look is at her.
Not Coach. Not my teammates. Not the bench. Not the crowd.
Her.
She’s crying and laughing at once, both hands over her mouth.
“We did it,” I yell. I don’t know if she reads my lips, but she nods.
This isn’t the first promise I’ve kept this year, but this one took the longest to follow through on. She’s going to come down here, and I’m going to spin her around and kiss her. Just like I told her I would.
Helm gets an arm around my neck and pulls me under, and the last thing I see before I disappear into the pile is Summer Starling.
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