Chapter 31
Lucky
The clock’s bleeding out.
Twenty seconds left in regulation. Tie game. Legs burning. Heart pounding.
The point in time that shrinks the world down to ice and breath and instinct. The San Diego crowd is on edge, their voices a wall of sound that buzzes through my helmet like static.
I’m gassed, but I don’t let up.
Not now.
Not when the playoffs are on the line and we’re one goal away from clinching our spot.
Then it happens.
A bad pass from their right wing, just sloppy enough to become an opportunity. The puck clips off his teammate’s skate and pops loose near the blue line.
I’m on it in a blink.
Stick down. One clean intercept.
My brain stops thinking. Instinct takes over. It’s just angles, pressure and timing now.
I pivot hard, cutting left, and their D-man—number 47—hesitates for half a second too long. I blow past him like he’s stuck in slush. Anders comes up on my right, calling for the puck, but I don’t dish it.
Because I see it.
The opening. A seam between both defenders, just wide enough to thread a prayer through.
Ten seconds.
The goalie reads me a little too early—he shifts weight toward the post, his glove hand twitching upward. That’s all I need.
I drop my shoulder, sell the move like I’m cutting inside, and then flick my wrist—quick, sharp, surgical. The puck lifts.
Glove side.
Top shelf.
The sound it makes when it hits the net is a perfect snap.
The horn blares because the puck is in and it’s game over for San Diego.
The crowd erupts, a split-second delay before the noise crashes down around me.
Not cheers of delight because we’re in enemy territory.
Groans from the home fans and a few boos punctuated by shouts from the tiny pocket of Titans fans in the upper level.
My teammates explode off the bench, helmets flying, gloves tossed.
Adrenaline floods through me. I throw my arms wide, coasting into the corner with a wild grin on my face as the guys swarm.
Anders hits me first, hard and fast. “You greedy bastard!” he yells, laughing.
Van grabs me in a headlock, shaking my helmet like a bobblehead. “I fucking love you!”
I can’t stop smiling. My chest feels like it might crack open from the inside out. We did it.
The Titans are going to the playoffs and my streak’s still alive. Every year since I got drafted, I’ve made the postseason and part of that has to be due to luck.
But this playoff clinch? It hits different.
Because somewhere, back in Pittsburgh, Winnie’s probably watching.
Maybe she’s at her parents’ house curled up on the couch, laughing with Sadie and eating too much popcorn.
Or maybe she’s alone with Buttermilk passed out across her lap, wearing those ridiculous llama pajamas.
She’d have her phone in hand, scrolling social media and catching the highlight clip before the game even ends.
Either way… she saw it.
And for the first time in my life, the win doesn’t feel complete because of the stats or the stakes. It feels complete because someone who knows me—not just the hockey part, but all the in-between parts—is cheering for me. Even when I’m three thousand miles away.
?
The locker room is as much a party as one can have when on the road.
The second we’re through the tunnel, it’s the best kind of pandemonium. Towels snapping, water bottles launching like confetti, and shouts echoing off the concrete walls like we’ve just won the damn Cup.
“Playoffs, baby!” Atlas bellows, pumping both fists in the air like a man possessed.
“Get this man a tattoo that says CLUTCH!” Anders says, climbing up onto a bench like it’s a stage. “Two assists tonight. I am, officially, the regular season goal whisperer.”
“You literally passed the puck twice,” I grouse, tossing my gloves into my cubby. “Welcome to the bottom line of hockey.”
Kace is mid-TikTok dance, still in partial gear, sweat dripping down the side of his face like he’s doing hot yoga instead of celebrating a buzzer-beater win. He’s been holding fucking strong in Drake’s place and I’m proud of the kid.
“What the hell kind of dance is that?” I ask, laughing as I strip off my elbow pads.
“It’s a remix of the ‘heart attack shuffle.’” He grins, stepping wildly left and right, arms jerking like he’s being electrocuted.
Someone throws a roll of hockey tape at his chest. “You’re making us look uncool, Elliott.”
“You are uncool,” he calls back, undeterred.
Foster walks by with a smirk and mutters, “And to think this team almost folded.”
That gets quiet smiles, all around. Because he’s not wrong.
Just last season, we were scattered. Broken. A team in name, but not in spirit. And now? We’ve clawed our way back. We didn’t just survive—we rebuilt.
Together.
The door swings open and everyone looks up.
Brienne Norcross strides in, polished as ever in a fitted blazer, hair pulled back, sharp heels clicking on the tile. Right behind her is Drake, still favoring his leg a little. He’s in a bespoke navy suit, his grin wide as hell.
“Don’t stop celebrating on my account,” Brienne calls out, raising her voice above the lingering chatter. “I just wanted to pop in to say congratulations.”
She pauses and scans the room like she’s looking each of us in the eye, and it quiets down.
“No one thought this was possible a year ago. No one thought a team gutted mid-season could rebuild like this. But you did it. You put in the work. You pulled each other through it. And now you’ve earned your spot.”
The room goes still. Not quiet, exactly—just charged. Listening.
“Other teams bought their way in,” she continues. “You built your way in. And you should be proud of that.”
Atlas lets out a “Hell yeah,” and the noise threatens to boil over again, but Brienne holds up a hand.
“One more thing.”
She looks around and although it’s impossible, it feels like she’s talking to each of us individually.
“I meant what I said the day I took over this team. This isn’t just about wins. It’s about legacy. And what you’re building here, what we’re building together, is something people are starting to notice. Finish strong. Show them that the Titans are back, and we’re here to stay.”
There’s a beat of silence before the whole room erupts. Fists slam against lockers. Helmets are banged together in a half-hearted headbutt. Someone blasts music. Kace tries to do a trust fall off a bench and immediately regrets it.
Drake claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Nice work out there.”
I nod. “Still weird not having you in net.”
“Still weird watching you be the hero,” he jokes. “But you pulled it off.”
Brienne smiles once more and turns for the door. “Celebrate smart, gentlemen.”
“Do you even know who you’re talking to?” Rafferty calls after her.
“Yes,” she says dryly, “and that’s exactly why I said it.”
The door shuts behind her, and I feel the weight of everything—every hard practice, every lineup shift, every time we doubted ourselves—settle into tangibly fulfilling.
We’re in.
We made it.
I flop down beside Penn, still grinning, my hair soaked and helmet hanging from my fingers.
“You really had to go full dramatic-hero mode in the last ten seconds, huh?” he says.
“Would you expect anything less?” I smirk, unwrapping tape from my wrist.
“Not from you,” he admits. “You love the clutch spotlight.”
“I love that it means we’re in,” I say, and it comes out softer than I expect. “No stress. No what-ifs. No breaking my playoff streak.”
Penn nods. “You earned it.”
I nudge him lightly with my shoulder. “Speaking of things I want to earn… any chance you and Mila might be up for a double date sometime?”
Penn turns, one brow raised. “Double date?”
“Yeah, you know,” I shrug, playing it casual. “Dinner. Drinks. Maybe bowling if we want to feel wildly uncoordinated.”
Across the room, Atlas yells, “Lucky Branson requesting a double date? Who even are you?!”
Kace joins in, singing, “He’s in looooove…”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but I’m laughing too.
Penn watches me for a second, then says, “You’re serious.”
“I am,” I say, more firmly now. “I just… I like Winnie. A lot. And I don’t want to miss any of it. I want to experience all the normal stuff. Group hangouts. Weekends off. Holding her hand in a restaurant. All of it.”
Penn doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smile.
He nods.
And when he speaks, it’s quiet, but it cuts to the center of everything.
“Then trust a man who knows something about this and don’t waste a single minute of it.”
I blink, caught off guard by how deeply that lands.
He’s the guy who almost lost everything—his career, his peace and the woman who brought him back to both. He knows what it’s like to love someone and nearly lose the chance to tell them.
“I won’t,” I say, and I mean it.
Penn holds out his fist and I bump it. “And yeah… we’d love to go out with you and Winnie sometime.”
Across the locker room, Stone somehow ends up with a bottle of champagne.
He pops the cork and starts spraying everyone.
We’re heading back on the red-eye flight tonight, but I’m sure there will be plenty more celebration on the plane.
I’ll toast the win, laugh with the guys—but my head’s already spinning on to what comes next.
Quality time with Winnie.