3
Kennedy
Josh texted me Sunday morning with a link to the tickets for the afternoon game.
Sammy and I had smoothed things over, but I was still a little annoyed. She was used to doing her own thing—just like I was—and I got that, but I’d never just leave her somewhere without letting her know.
Still, by the time we got to the arena, I was too excited to stay upset. I hadn’t been to a professional game in almost two years, and the familiarity of it felt a bit like coming home.
The place was already buzzing, the air practically vibrating with anticipation. Fans in red-and-white Empires jerseys streamed through the concourse, hurrying to get to their seats or in line for food or beer.
That was one of the biggest differences from upstate: people in Manhattan were always in a rush to get somewhere. Nobody strolled just for the sake of it; even their leisure felt urgent.
The scent of buttered popcorn, beer, pretzels, hot dogs—all the warm, greasy concessions—blended together as we moved through the concourse. When we got to the actual stands, the sharp, clean bite of cold air hit us, tinged with the faint chemical smell of the ice itself.
The smile on my face was huge as we walked over to the seats, which were just what I’d expected—incredible. We were so close I could see the scratches on the boards and the condensation clinging to the glass.
“This is so awesome,” Sammy said, grinning with her whole face as she turned to take it all in. “Seriously, look how close we are!”
“Yeah,” I said, taking in the view. We were only a few rows behind the Empires’ team box, close enough to see the players’ expressions through the glass. “These would have cost a fortune if we had to pay for them.”
“Probably,” she agreed, eyes wide with excitement. “But hey—can’t complain about free VIP treatment.”
The lights dimmed, the opening music thundering through the arena as a single spotlight swept the ice. The boards around it flashed red and white, and a roar rose from the crowd, twenty thousand voices merging into one deafening cheer.
The energy was unreal—louder, bigger, more intense than any of the local games I’d gone to back home, or even the college and pro games I’d watched. This was another level entirely.
Beside me, Sammy was practically bouncing in her seat, squealing like a kid at a carnival.
I laughed, feeling the same way.
My gaze snapped back to the ice as an intro video lit up the Jumbotron. Shots of Manhattan’s skyline, the Empire State Building, and Times Square flashed in rhythm to the beat before switching to Empires highlights. Big hits. Breakaway goals. The crowd chanting, “Let’s go, Empires!”
And then the player photos flashed across the screen—and damn, Nash looked good.
The music changed, and the lights around the tunnel shifted to a cool white glow. The Columbus team was introduced first to only a few cheers.
Then the atmosphere shifted again. Smoke rolled out from the tunnel as the entire arena pulsed red and white. The crowd roared as the announcer’s voice thundered through the speakers, calling out each Empires player one by one.
I waited for one name in particular, annoyed at how my pulse quickened with every introduction.
And then—there he was.
Nash shot out of the tunnel in a burst of speed, the lights catching on his jersey as the announcer’s voice boomed his name and the crowd cheered.
He lifted his stick in acknowledgment, skating a quick circle before joining the rest of his line near center ice.
On the big screen, the camera caught a close-up of him adjusting his gloves, jaw set, eyes hard and focused. He’d always been determined, even when we were kids and the stands were barely half-full. On the ice, he looked different: bigger, sharper, untouchable.
But beneath it all, I still saw the same boy who used to sneak into my backyard after practice, covered in sweat and grinning like a fool, asking if I’d seen his goal. The same boy who used to laugh when I’d pretend to critique his plays like I knew what I was talking about.
He was a professional now. A man who looked like he belonged and thrived in that spotlight.
But I knew better.
He’d been struggling. The press hadn’t been kind, and neither had the stats.
It wasn’t the first slump he’d faced, but this one seemed different, like the weight of it was getting to him.
He hadn’t been able to get things quite right.
The shots that used to come so easily—the ones he could sink from impossible angles without thinking—were missing the mark.
I just hoped today would be different. That he’d find his rhythm again.
“Oh my God,” Sammy squealed, gripping my arm tightly. “This is so freaking exciting!”
I smiled at her but kept my eyes on Nash. Seeing him out there again had hit me harder than I’d expected. It was familiar, thrilling, and surprisingly emotional. It was where he belonged, and watching it in person again sent me through every emotion possible in the span of a few seconds.
Watching him move across the ice gave me flashbacks to the boy who’d skated circles around everyone in our neighborhood, the teenager who’d lived for early practices and late-night games, and the man who’d chased this dream long before the world ever learned his name.
My chest tightened. God, I’d missed this. I’d missed sharing this with him more than I’d allowed myself to admit.
“Where’s Josh?” Sammy asked, raising her voice over the roar of the crowd.
“He’s number five,” I shouted back, pulling my eyes from Nash and pointing toward the ice. “And there’s Mitchell,” I added, gesturing near the goal. “Number sixteen.”
“Got it.” She nodded, eyes wide with excitement as she tracked the players.
The teams lined up at center ice, removing their helmets for the national anthem.
Nash stood tall, his stick gripped lightly in one hand, the other resting at his side.
His gaze swept across the crowd, scanning the sea of faces like he was looking for someone.
I knew his parents weren’t here—they were on a cruise, according to my mom, who still kept in touch with the Reeds even after they’d sold their house and left town a few years ago.
When the puck finally dropped, both Nash and Mitch were on the ice.
The Empires surged forward, the crowd erupting as they gained possession.
I jumped to my feet, cheering along with the people next to me when Nash skillfully dodged an opposing player and passed the puck to Larsson, who fired a shot at the goal, just missing.
The crowd let out a collective groan. Moments later, the Empires got another chance.
Mitch chased the puck hard, digging his skates into the straightaway before whipping around and passing the puck to Nash, who, with a flick of his wrist, sent it toward the goal. But the goalie caught it in his glove.
“Damn,” Sammy sighed next to me, her eyes glued to the ice. The Empires did a line change. Josh hopped over the boards, skating into position as Nash coasted toward the bench. Just before he sat, his gaze lifted—and found mine.
I couldn’t help but smile, giving him a quick thumbs-up. His grin was instant, wide and boyish, the kind that used to knock the wind out of me.
“Holy shit,” a girl behind us squeaked. “Did you just see Nash Reed look up here? Oh my God, he’s so hot!”
“I know,” sighed another voice, dreamy and a little breathless.
Sammy turned to me with a knowing look, eyebrows raised.
“Can’t argue with that.” I shrugged, knowing the feeling. Nash was definitely something.
There was another line change, and Nash was back on the ice.
This time he was everywhere, breaking up plays, controlling the pace, setting up chances like the Nash Reed everyone used to talk about.
Like the one I remembered from home. The one who used to play on frozen ponds until his lips turned blue, chasing a dream that would eventually come true.
It was the best I’d seen him play in a long time.
And then—just before the end of the first period—he scored.
The second the red light flashed, the entire arena went absolutely nuts. Fans leapt to their feet, screaming, cheering, high-fiving strangers. Beside me, Sammy let out a shriek that could’ve shattered glass.
“I love hockey!” she shouted over the roar. “Oh my God, Kennedy. This is so much fun. We have to do it again!”
“Yes, absolutely,” I said, laughing with her. And I meant it. I would love to do this again.
But there was no way we could afford these kinds of seats. Not even with my new salary. So unless my job came with perks like this, or we scored some comp seats again, we’d have to be up in the nosebleeds.
When the game ended, it was with an Empires win.
The crowd was loud, chanting and celebrating the home team.
Sammy and I hung back, letting everyone make their way out the doors.
That was when I noticed a tall man in a suit coming down the aisle, a New York Empires badge clipped to a lanyard around his neck.
He scanned the section before locking eyes with me.
“Kennedy Miller?” he asked.
“Yes, that’s me,” I answered, caught off guard.
“This way, ma’am,” he said, motioning for us to follow.
“Oh. Okay.” I stood, exchanging a wide-eyed look with Sammy before falling in step behind him.
I had no idea where we were headed or who had asked for us, but it had to be either Josh or Nash. My stomach fluttered at the thought. And honestly, I hoped it was Nash even though I shouldn’t.
He led us down a quiet corridor to a sleek waiting area just off the hallway near the locker rooms. Black leather couches lined the walls, and several large New York Empires posters were displayed around the space.
My eyes were immediately drawn to one in particular—Nash, stick raised triumphantly into the air, face lit up with that familiar wide grin, with the home crowd roaring in the background, their cheers frozen in time.
“This is freaking cool,” Sammy whispered, unable to contain her excitement. She nudged me with her elbow, grinning from ear to ear.