CHAPTER 31
ACE
THE HOUSE IS dead quiet when I wake up, which is wrong. There should be noise—people talking, equipment moving, someone doing something. Instead, there's just silence, heavy and unnatural, broken only by the wind howling outside like it's offended by our existence.
I'm on Washington's couch, my neck protesting the angle I've been sleeping at, and for a second I can't remember where I am or why I'm here. Then it comes back.
Most people went home around midnight to get actual rest in actual beds. The smart ones, anyway.
But some of us stayed. Me, Petrov, Becker, Mama Paws, and Devon.
Speaking of Devon… I locate him sprawled in an armchair across from me, dead to the world, mouth slightly open, one leg hanging over the armrest in a position that looks deeply uncomfortable.
Washington's stretched out on the other couch, one arm thrown over his eyes in a gesture of solidarity, given his bedroom is right upstairs.
Petrov's on the floor, using a throw pillow as a mattress and looking perfectly content.
Mama Paws claimed the recliner hours ago and is snoring softly, wrapped in what appears to be every blanket in the house.
Becker's nowhere visible, which probably means he's passed out somewhere weird like the bathtub or a closet.
The lights flicker.
Once. Twice.
The power holds, but barely, and that's not a good sign.
I'm about to close my eyes and try to get another hour of sleep when my phone buzzes. Then buzzes again. And again.
I pull it out, squinting at the screen.
Group chat. Multiple messages coming in rapid succession.
Wall: Guys. Check the weather update.
Wall: Seriously. Check it now.
Wall: This is bad.
That gets my attention.
I sit up, the movement making my neck scream in protest, and pull up the weather app. The loading circle spins for what feels like an eternity before the page finally loads.
And my stomach drops.
Winter Storm Warning has been upgraded to Blizzard Warning.
Expected snowfall: 24-30 inches (previously 18-24).
Wind gusts: 60+ mph (previously 50).
Windchill: -25°F (feels like).
Actual temperature: -5°F.
The mayor has extended the emergency declaration through tomorrow evening.
Residents advised to stay indoors unless absolutely necessary.
Travel not recommended.
Fuck.
"Everyone up," I say, my voice cutting through the quiet. "Now."
Devon jolts awake, nearly falling out of the chair. "What? What happened? Is it noon already?"
"Check your phones."
There's rustling as everyone stirs, pulling out devices, squinting at screens. I watch their faces change as they read the same update I just did. Understanding. Worry. Dread.
Washington sits up, running both hands through his hair. "We can't play in that. It's not safe."
"We have to," Becker says immediately, appearing from wherever he was hiding. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, and there's a crease on his face from whatever surface he was sleeping on. "We've come this far."
"Becker—"
"No. Listen. We've put in too much work. Everyone's expecting this. We can't just—"
"He's right," Devon says quietly, and everyone turns to look at him. "We can't ask people to risk frostbite for this. We can't ask the firefighters to play in dangerous conditions. It's not worth it."
I watch Devon's face as he says it, his jaw clenching, shoulders slumping slightly. He's been carrying this whole thing on his back for weeks, determined and unstoppable, and now I'm watching him break.
Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just this quiet crumbling, like a building giving up and folding in on itself.
The room falls into heavy silence. Nobody wants to say it out loud. That maybe this is over. That maybe we tried and failed. That maybe the universe just wasn't on our side this time.
Mama Paws stays silently, tears rolling down her cheeks, and that might be the worst part. This woman who's spent her life caring for animals nobody else wanted, who's poured her heart and soul into the shelter, watching her last hope slip away because of something as arbitrary as weather.
Devon stands abruptly and walks to the window. I follow without thinking.
He's staring out at the storm, at the snow coming down so thick you can't see more than a few feet. The wind is rattling the windows, making the whole house feel like it's under siege, and Devon's jaw is clenched so tight I'm worried about his teeth.
"Hey," I say softly, stopping next to him.
"I really thought we could pull this off." His voice is flat, defeated in a way I've never heard from him. "I really thought—" He stops, swallows hard. "I thought for once, just once, things would work out."
"They still can."
He turns to look at me, and his eyes are red-rimmed. "How? Even if you're all crazy enough to play in that, we can't ask the firefighters to risk their health. We can't ask anyone to come out in this. It's not safe. It's not—"
His phone rings, cutting him off.
He pulls it out, glances at the screen. "It's Kayla." He answers, then listens. "Yeah?" And listens. "What?" And listens some more. "Are you serious?"
Then, he puts it on speaker, and everyone crowds around us, drawn in by Kayla's tone.
"Check Twitter," she says. "Check Instagram. Check everything. Right now."
Devon pulls up Twitter with shaking hands, and I lean over his shoulder to see.
The screen loads, and—
#PucksForPaws is trending. Not just locally. Nationally. Number three on the trending list, right below some celebrity scandal and a political thing.
#BlizzardBowl is trending too. Number seven.
Devon scrolls, his breath coming faster, and I read over his shoulder:
These guys are playing hockey in a BLIZZARD to save homeless animals. This is the most Chicago thing I've ever seen.
I don't even like hockey, but I'm watching this. These guys are heroes.
Just donated. This is what the holidays are about.
BLIZZARD HOCKEY. That's it. That's the tweet.
The donation counter on the shelter's website is visible at the top of one linked article: $50,000.
Fifty thousand dollars, and the game hasn't even started.
Devon's hands are trembling. "This is—I don't—"
"Keep scrolling," Kayla says through the phone.
He does.
News outlets are covering it. Local Chicago stations, sure, but also ESPN, some national morning shows, sports blogs I've heard of and some I haven't.
Chicago Hockey Team to Play Charity Game During Historic Blizzard.
Wolves Players Defy Weather Emergency for Animal Shelter.
The Blizzard Bowl: Hockey Meets Humanity in Chicago.
Celebrity tweets. Athletes from other sports. Random people sharing the stream link, the shelter's story, photos from yesterday's setup that people must have posted online.
And the comments. Thousands of them.
This is incredible
Crying at my desk rn
Chicago doesn't fuck around
Where do I donate?
I'm in Cali and I'm def watching this
"Check your email," Kayla says. "The shelter's email. Mama Paws, check it."
Mama Paws fumbles with her phone, hands shaking, and pulls up her email.
Her face goes completely white.
"What?" Devon asks. "What is it?"
"Adoption applications." Her voice is barely a whisper. "There are—" She scrolls. "—over two hundred adoption applications."
The room erupts.
"What?"
"Two hundred?"
"That's not possible!"
"Let me see!"
We crowd around Mama Paws's phone, and it's real. Page after page of emails, all with the subject line "Adoption Application" or "I want to adopt" or "Tell me about Candy."
Mama Paws is crying for real now, both hands over her mouth, phone shaking.
Washington's phone rings. He looks at the screen. "It's Coach." He answers, putting it on speaker. "Yeah?"
"Turn on Channel 7," Coach Martin says. "Right now."
Washington grabs the TV remote, flipping to the local news station.
A morning anchor is on screen, sitting at a desk with a steaming mug of coffee, and behind him is a graphic: THE BLIZZARD BOWL - LIVE AT NOON.
"—remarkable story coming out of Chicago this morning," the anchor is saying.
"A group of local hockey players, firefighters, and volunteers are defying a blizzard warning to host a charity game for an animal shelter in need.
The game will be livestreamed at noon today, and already, the internet is rallying behind what's being called 'the most Chicago thing ever. '"
The screen cuts to footage from yesterday—the team clearing snow, the firefighters arriving, shots of the rink taking shape, lights being strung up.
"The shelter, which specializes in caring for animals with special needs, was facing closure due to financial difficulties," the anchor continues. "But thanks to this community effort, they've already raised over fifty thousand dollars in donations."
The screen cuts to an interview—someone talking about Mama Paws, about the shelter's mission, about the animals waiting for homes.
Then back to the anchor: "The Blizzard Bowl streams live at noon on multiple platforms. And if you're able, consider donating or adopting. These are the stories that remind us what the holidays are really about."
The studio cuts to commercial, and we all just stand there, staring at the TV in stunned silence.
My phone starts buzzing. Then Devon's. Then everyone's.
The group chat is exploding.
Groover: We're famous.
Wall: My mom just called me crying. She's so proud.
Jinx: THIS IS INSANE
Snooze: I'm awake. That's how big this is.
More messages flood in, teammates waking up to the viral moment, everyone freaking out in their own way.
Becker's already at his laptop, pulling up the streaming setup. "We have ten thousand people waiting for the stream to go live." He looks up, eyes wide. "It's not even six in the morning."
Devon looks around at all of us, and I watch the defeat drain out of his face, replaced by something bright and fierce and determined.
"So," he says, "we're doing this?"
Washington's grinning now. "Oh, we're absolutely doing this."
Petrov pumps his fist. "In Russia, we play hockey in worse conditions."