Chapter 32
Miguel
The air inside Chicago’s arena always felt different—colder, heavier, like the ice itself remembered every hit you ever took on it.
Playoff noise was something else too: horns, chants, the echo of sticks slapping against boards, the kind of chaos that pressed against your chest until your heartbeat matched the rhythm.
We were down in the series—2–1—and if we didn’t take this game, it was over. No round three, no redemption, no shot at the PHL Cup.
The crowd wanted our blood.
Fine. They could have everything but that.
First period. The Knights came out hungry.
First shift. Bodies flew. Tank cleared the slot. I caught a snapshot off the shoulder, the puck ricocheting wide. The crowd groaned, then roared again when one of theirs snatched the rebound.
For twenty minutes it was survival.
Pucks off the post, one off my mask, another through traffic that I barely caught with the edge of my pad.
They drew first blood—one-timer, top corner, screened so bad I saw it half a second too late.
1–0, Chicago.
Their fans went wild.
But on the bench, I caught Drew’s voice—steady, calm, that coach tone that could rebuild a man in a sentence.
“Shake it off. Reset.”
I did.
Late in the period, we got a power play. Justin won the draw, slid it to Tank, who faked a shot and fed Devin at the crease. Tap in. Beautiful.
Tie game.
The sound of silence from the stands was sweeter than any cheer.
When the horn blew, I skated to the bench, heart pounding, sweat soaking through my gear.
1–1.
One period down, two to go.
Second period. Chicago came harder.
They hit heavier, threw pucks from impossible angles, tried to rattle me. It didn’t work.
I was in that zone where the world narrowed to light, motion, instinct. Stick save. Blocker save. Pad save. Catch glove snapping shut like a trap.
Then it happened. Midway through the second, their captain got a breakaway.
Crowd on its feet. He deked left, right, tried to go five-hole.
I dropped, stuck the pad out—clack!—and smothered it with my glove.
The place erupted, boos shaking the rafters.
I stood, tossed the puck to the ref, and let my heartbeat slow.
Two shifts later, we got another rush—Jester to Justin to Sam.
Goal.
2–1, Grizzlies.
Sam threw his arms wide like he’d scored the PHL Cup winner. Tank smacked his helmet, half proud, half warning. The period ended with Knights fans booing so loud the boards vibrated under my skates. We filed into the locker room up by one, and Drew stood in the doorway, waiting.
“Good,” he said, eyes sweeping the room. “That’s the response I wanted. You’re playing your game now. Don’t let them pull you into theirs.” He didn’t need to shout. Every man in that room was locked in.
He looked at me last. Just a flicker of something unspoken. Pride. Trust. Maybe more.
Third period. The last twenty minutes felt like war.
Chicago threw everything at us—odd-man rushes, high tips, cross-crease passes that made my stomach clench.
I played by muscle memory and willpower.
With five minutes left, we drew another power play. Devin passed to Justin, slapshot from the circle—bar down, in.
3–1.
The noise in that building broke. You could feel the anger from the home fans, the way their chants got meaner, faster. Chicago answered with one late goal, a rebound I couldn’t control.
3–2.
Two minutes left.
They pulled their goalie. Empty net on their end, chaos on ours. I saw Tank take a stick to the ribs and stay standing. Jester dove, blocked a slapshot with his skate, limped up, still cleared the puck.
Clock bleeding down.
I tracked the puck off the glass, into the corner, back to the point—one more shot. It hit my chest, dropped between my knees. I covered it.
Horn.
0:00. Grizzlies 3. Knights 2.
We’d done it.
Series tied.
Alive again.
The bench exploded, sticks banging, gloves flying. Someone yelled my name, maybe two or three voices together. For a second, I let myself look at him.
Drew.
Across the ice, hands shoved in his pockets, face composed—but his eyes said everything.
The locker room was chaos: music thumping, steam rising off our gear, everyone riding that razor edge between exhaustion and euphoria.
Tank was half shouting, half laughing, “We’re not done!”
Jester threw an arm around Devin. “We’re coming for the finals, baby!”
Then Drew stepped in. The room went still like someone cut the power.
“That,” he said, “was what this team was built to do. You were down. You could’ve folded. Instead, you fought for every inch. That’s who we are. Not a stat, or a standing. We are fighters.”
His voice was calm, low, even. That quiet command that made you believe him.
God, he was good at this—at knowing when to light a fire and when to cool it down. I’d watched him stay composed through two bad calls, a crowd that booed. He never cracked. Never raised his voice. Just set his jaw, steadied his gaze, and we followed.
And maybe that’s why watching him now—still flushed from the win, hair damp, sleeves pushed up—did something to me I couldn’t let show.
He looked like control made flesh.
And it was the sexiest damn thing I’d ever seen.
He dropped his tone another notch. “We get one more. One more game, one more chance to prove this isn’t luck. It’s work. It’s belief.”
Then he broke into a grin. “Rest up. Hydrate. Eat something green for once.”
Laughter rolled through the room, breaking the tension just enough. But when he turned, our eyes met again.
A single heartbeat.
That was all.
But it landed deep—like pressure behind the ribs, a connection sparking through every inch of me.
I couldn’t touch him here, couldn’t even hold the look for more than a breath.
Didn’t matter.
That one second was enough to light me up from the inside out.
By the time I made it back to the hotel, my body ached in places I didn’t know could ache. But the adrenaline hadn’t faded. Not even close. We’d won. And all I wanted now was to share that win—with him.
After showering, I wrapped a towel around my hips, hair still damp. I crossed the carpet and knocked—three quick raps, not nearly soft enough to hide the urgency underneath. The lock turned. The door opened. And there he was.