Chapter 38 That’s the last one, old friend
Chapter thirty-eight
That’s the last one, old friend
Reid
The third period hasn’t even started yet, but I’m already drenched. Sweat beads at the nape of my neck, trickles down between my shoulder blades, and soaks the edges of my gear.
It’s loud out there. I can feel it rumbling through the walls—the crowd, the chaos, the storm we built. The whole fucking season comes down to the next twenty minutes.
Storm: 2.
Dragons: 2.
Game seven of the Stanley Cup Final.
I adjust my catcher’s glove, flex my fingers once, then twice, letting the leather creak and breathe around my palm. The fresh embroidery presses against the webbing just enough to anchor me.
I.H.H.
C.P.
Didn’t stitch anything into my glove for two decades due to superstition and mostly because nothing ever felt permanent enough.
But now, I’ve got initials in my catcher. A daughter in the stands. And the woman I’d cross continents for, sitting beside her with a ridiculous foam finger and bags under her eyes from working two night shifts this week and still making it to every game.
My girls.
They’re why I’m here, and why I’m retiring after this. Carina has her whole career ahead of her, and I want to support her through that. I want time with my daughter. I just want to be with them.
I’ve spent my whole life defending the crease, fighting for shutouts, and holding the goddamn line.
But this is it; my last stand.
Only a few people know. The front office, Coach Benson, and the boys in the locker room. But I asked them to keep it quiet—just until tonight’s done. Just until I’ve earned the right to walk away on my own fucking terms.
The ref waves us out, and the door slams open. I skate into the light, and the crowd explodes again. It’s deafening and drowning.
I don’t look toward the family seats, not yet. If I see them now, I’ll come undone, and I need every molecule of focus for what’s next.
Chase skates past me on his way to the circle and taps the back of my pad once, just behind the ankle. Jake mutters something under his breath as he plants himself at center. Logan’s nose is bleeding again, and he doesn’t even notice.
The puck drops, and we’re on.
I press forward into my stance, legs set wide and catcher open. My stick angles down, blade flush against the paint, glove wide and ready. The noise of the crowd thins out into static as the Dragons gain possession, cycling fast through the neutral zone.
They want this. I can see it in the way their top line bears down. It’s the same core team that broke us in Game Six last season. The same fuckers who took my knee out the season before that.
Their winger tears down the right side and snaps a pass across the slot. I track it with my head low and eyes locked. My chest tightens, but my body knows this. Knows the angles, the rush, the split-second blur of black rubber screaming toward the net.
I drop into butterfly and seal the ice. Pads clatter, and there’s a body in front of me—Logan or a Dragon, I don’t know—but I see the shot, and my glove goes up to snag it clean.
Whistle.
The crowd surges behind me, a wall of noise rising through the rafters, but all I hear is my breath inside the mask.
I skate a slow half-circle around the crease and carve a fresh line into the paint with the heel of my blade, just enough to feel it. I’ve been drawing those lines since I was fifteen—back when I needed something to ground me, to make the chaos feel like mine.
My hand flexes inside the glove, feeling the embroidery along the inside edge.
I had it stitched in the second we agreed on her name, and now here they are, cradled in my hands. Like they always will be.
Dallas comes again, harder this time. I track them all the way in and make the glove, but they’re relentless, and I know it.
But not tonight. Not with her in the stands, not with our daughter watching. Not with their initials stitched into me.
They come at me again, piling into the zone with ruthless precision. The puck bounces off the end boards and wraps around fast, and I move with it, shuffling right and hugging the post as their center looks for a hole.
He fires low, and I kick it out with my toe and brace for the rebound, but Logan clears the crease, shouldering the forward off balance just long enough for Jake to scoop it and break up ice.
I shout GO once, and then I’m tracking the action.
Viktor takes the pass at center and hauls ass down the wing, blood still drying under his nose from a fight earlier. He doesn’t pass or fake, he drives hard to the net like he’s got fucking fire under his skates.
The Dragons’ goalie drops too early.
Viktor sees it and roofs it.
Top shelf, blocker side. A perfect fucking shot.
The red light flares behind the net, and the horn sounds. The arena erupts.
3–2 Storm.
We’re winning. We’re winning the fucking Cup.
The last few seconds tick down, and I drop into position one last time, heart hammering as Dallas makes one desperate push. They fire from the blue line with three seconds left, but it’s wide. I don’t even have to move.
Buzzer. Game, set, season.
We’ve done it.
I tear off my mask and throw it, gloves flying, stick clattering to the ice.
The boys crash into the boards, and I let out a roar that burns my throat raw as I punch the air with my catcher. I skate forward just far enough to meet them—Jake wrapping me in a half-headlock, Logan jumping on my back like a lunatic, Chase and Eli screaming so loud I think they might pass out.
The world explodes around me—teammates flooding the zone, coaches pounding the glass, fans losing their goddamn minds.
I search the stands, and there they are.
Carina’s crying and laughing simultaneously, Ivy’s strapped to her chest with oversized headphones, blinking wide-eyed under the stadium lights. Carina raises a hand, then presses it flat to her heart, and I swear I can feel it in mine.
I drop to my knees, ice burning through my pads, adrenaline surging so hard I’m shaking.
My last save, my last game. My last win.
They hand the Cup off to Jake first. He kisses the silver like it’s sacred, then lifts it high above his head to the roar of the crowd.
He turns and looks for me, but I shake my head once. Not yet.
Jake nods in understanding and pivots, passing it to Eli next, who hoists it and screams so loud, the rafters shake. Then Chase. Then Logan. Viktor. The rest of the boys.
I wait, gloves off, sweat cooling against my skin. Knees still aching from the third-period push, body screaming from twenty years of this game.
Because first, I want her.
I spot Carina moving near the edge of the rink, just behind the security rope. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s still in scrubs under her Storm jacket—snuck out of the hospital just in time.
And strapped to her chest is Ivy Harriet Hope.
My fucking miracle.
Her eyes find me, huge and dark and curious as I make my way over, carving a slow arc through the chaos.
The crowd parts to let Carina through, and she hands Ivy to me. She blinks up at me, wobbly but alert, her chubby cheeks pink from the cold, her tiny fists curled against the logo on my jersey.
“Hey, bubba,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers. “We did it.”
“You were unbelievable,” Carina says, reaching up to touch my jaw.
“Couldn’t lose with you two in the building.”
She leans in, and I kiss her hard—longer than I should in public, not that I give a damn. Ivy babbles against my chest like she’s cheering along with the crowd.
“Hutch-y! Hutch-y! Hutch-y!”
Jake’s skating toward me now, grinning like a lunatic with the Stanley Cup back in his hands. “You want it, old man?”
I nod once, then pass Ivy carefully back to Carina.
Jake doesn’t say anything, just holds it out, that same wild grin on his face I’ve seen since he was a rookie with too-big skates and something to prove.
I lift it high to a deafening roar.
Twenty years.
Fourteen seasons with the Storm. Dozens of cracked ribs, concussions, and nights wondering if I’d ever make it back.
And now, I’ve got silver in my hands again and the sound of my daughter laughing in my ears.
I’ve played more games than I can count, fought harder than I probably should’ve, stayed longer than most said I would.
But this is the ending I chose, on my terms.
I lower the Cup and crouch, curling my hands around the wide, gleaming rim. Carina’s already stepping closer, smiling as I nod toward Ivy at her chest.
She unclips the harness, and Ivy’s feet kick excitedly as I lift her up and nestle her inside the Stanley Cup.
With a delighted squeal that cuts straight through me, her hand grabs the side, and the other flails with victory, like she knows exactly what this means.
“That’s my whole damn heart,” I whisper, throat thick, “sitting in a silver bowl.”
The flashbulbs go off, but all I see is her.
Ivy. My girl.
Or as Carina has taught me, Uri ttal.
She wraps an arm around my waist, and I tug her close with my free hand. She’s shaking a little, too. Lips chapped and mascara smudged, but she’s never looked more beautiful.
The Cup sits between us, our daughter giggling from inside it like the world is hers to command. And maybe it is, because everything that matters is already here, stitched into my catcher, pressed against my chest, and standing at my side.
Coach claps a hand on my shoulder and nods toward the boards. “You wanna tell them?”
I nod, and the rinkside reporter waves me over. I hand Ivy back to Carina and skate forward.
My last interview.
She congratulates me and then asks something about legacy, and I see my opening.
“I’ve spent my whole life protecting the goal,” I say, taking the mic. My eyes flick briefly to the crease, to the carved-up paint and puck marks that built me. “But now I’m ready to step over the line.”
I look over to Carina. She’s got Ivy pressed close again, one hand smoothing her tiny hat back into place, but her eyes are locked on me.
“Those two girls over there? They’re my goal now. That’s my future. They’re my biggest win of all.”
The crowd erupts again, but I barely hear it, because Carina’s lips are moving, and even with the noise, I can hear it.
I love you.
The boys find me after that—soaking me in champagne and full-body tackles on the ice. It’s the chaos I’ve lived for, the sound of glory ringing off the rafters.
But even in the middle of it, I keep glancing back to the edge of the rink. To the woman who never asked me to choose, but who made me want to anyway.
To the daughter who reminds me how to start again.
Eventually, the lights begin to fade, and the ice clears. The Cup is passed from hand to hand, and somewhere in the quiet aftermath, I skate one last slow circle around my crease.
But I don’t carve any new grooves. Don’t smooth any of the snow.
I just look. Embed it into my memory. Tap the right post, then the left. Stroke the twine, and nod my head.
“That’s the last one, old friend.”
Then I turn and skate off the ice and into the tunnel.
I’ve got nothing left to prove, and everything left to love.