Chapter 29 #3
We poured on pressure. Shot after shot. Their goalie stood on his head, making saves that felt impossible—glove saves, pad saves, one with his blocker that defied physics. The crowd got frantic, desperate, willing the puck into the net.
I had a chance five minutes in—rebound sitting right in front of the net. But my leg buckled when I tried to get to it, and their defenseman cleared it before I could recover.
“Getting slow, Hartley!” Brennan chirped as he skated past. “Maybe you should sit this one out. Let the healthy players work.”
“Fuck off, Brennan,” Finn snapped from the bench.
Ten minutes left. Then eight. The clock becoming our enemy.
Then I took a hit into the boards.
I went down like a stone, shoulder slamming into the glass, leg buckling underneath me. The impact drove the air from my lungs. For a second, I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Just lay there tasting copper and feeling my body scream.
The ref's whistle was distant. Voices calling my name were muffled.
Then I got up.
Slowly. Carefully. Like a ghost refusing to accept death.
Pain was a fire behind my eyes, but I didn't show it. Just skated back to the bench on autopilot and took my next shift.
“Hartley, you sure you're—” Tess started.
“I'm fine.”
June was white-knuckling her phone in the tunnel. Paul watched from the press box like a predator calculating odds.
I didn't break.
With five minutes left, we tied it.
Scramble in front of the net. Bodies everywhere. I screened the goalie, took a crosscheck to the ribs that made stars burst behind my eyes, and the puck deflected off my skate and in.
Two to two.
The building detonated. Guys mobbed me, and I let them even though every impact hurt. Because we were alive. Still fighting. Still in this.
The Titans came back hard. Desperate now. Brennan was throwing his weight around, trying to impose his will. But we matched them hit for hit.
Final minute, they got a breakaway. Clean. Just their forward and Elias.
The arena held its breath.
Elias made a save that felt like fate—glove hand, fully extended, robbery. The puck hit his glove and I heard the collective exhale of fifteen thousand people.
The horn sounded. Regulation over and we were tied.
Overtime.
Every pass a risk. Every stride cost me. The leg was beyond pain now—just a numb, distant thing I dragged behind me through sheer will.
The arena was deafening. Every shift felt like it might be the last. One mistake and it was over.
I got a chance early. Partial breakaway. Clean look. But I didn't have the burst to finish. Pain stole speed, and their goalie made the save.
I hated it. Hated my body for betraying me when it mattered most.
Then they got a power play—penalty on Volkov for a slash that might not have been a slash—and we survived by inches. Blocked shots, sticks snapping, bodies throwing themselves in front of pucks like grenades.
Rook blocked one with his face. Blood poured from his nose but he stayed on the ice.
The crowd was on their feet. Screaming. Begging.
Tess caught Grant's eye from the bench. I saw it happen. Saw her shake her head slightly. Saw Grant's face go still.
Grant looked like he might shatter. But he didn't pull me. Didn't make the call.
Then it happened.
I got the puck at the red line, saw open ice, and drove hard. Their defenseman panicked, reached out, and hooked my hands. We both went down in a tangle of limbs.
The ref's arm shot up immediately.
Penalty shot.
The arena went absolutely feral. The noise was a physical thing, pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I lay on the ice for a second, heart pounding, leg screaming, and felt the weight of what was about to happen settle over me like a shroud.
This was it. Everything I'd worked for. Everything I'd survived. All of it coming down to one shot.
I got to my feet slowly. Skated to center ice. The crowd noise was deafening but I couldn't hear any of it. Just my own breathing. My own heartbeat. The scrape of my blades on ice.
The ref placed the puck on the dot. I stared at the goalie, and he stared back, and the entire arena held its breath.
My hands started shaking.
Not now. Please not fucking now.
I looked at the bench.
Grant's eyes found mine across the ice, and I saw him recognize it immediately. Saw him see the panic written all over my face.
He touched his chest once. Right over his heart.
I've got you.
Then he mouthed two words: “Eyes on me.”
I locked my gaze on him and forced myself to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Feeling my skates on the ice. Feeling the stick in my hands. Feeling the cold air in my lungs.
The panic was still there. My hands were still trembling. But I had tools now. I had anchors. I had Grant standing on that bench believing I could do this even when I wasn't sure I could believe it myself.
I thought about the last time I'd been here. The playoff miss. The post. The sound that had haunted me for two years.
Then I thought about Grant telling me the anxiety didn't make me weak. Thought about my family accepting me. Thought about Rook standing beside me in the locker room. Thought about everything I'd survived to get to this moment.
I wasn't that scared kid anymore. I was someone who'd chosen truth over fear. Who'd fought for what mattered. Who'd learned that being brave didn't mean not being afraid—it meant doing it anyway.
My breathing steadied. My hands stopped shaking. The panic receded to background noise.
Next shift. That's all you control.
I pushed off.
Slow approach. Reading the goalie. He was cheating glove side, expecting the move I'd tried last time. The move that had haunted me.
So I didn't give it to him.
I sold the shot, pulled the puck to my backhand, and slid it five-hole as he committed.
The puck crossed the line.
The red light exploded.
The building detonated.
We won.
The sound was unreal—a wall of noise that hit me like a physical force. My teammates spilled over the boards, screaming, and I turned toward the bench without thinking.
The team mobbed me first—bodies crashing into mine, helmets thumping, voices screaming and yelling. Rook grabbed my shoulders, shouting something I couldn't hear over the noise. Finn was crying and laughing at the same time. Mercer just shook his head like he'd known all along this would happen.
But I was looking past them. Looking toward the bench.
Grant was standing there, face breaking open with relief and pride and something so raw it made my chest ache.
I pushed through my teammates, skating toward center ice. He met me there—stepped onto the ice without hesitation, right in the middle of the rink, in front of twenty thousand people and every camera in the building.
We stood there for a second. Just looking at each other. The crowd noise was deafening but all I could hear was my own heartbeat.
Then I grabbed him by the jacket and kissed him.
His hands came up to frame my face, and for a second, the world narrowed down to just us. Just this. The truth we'd been hiding finally out in the open where it belonged.
When I pulled back, the arena had gone from screaming to something else—a different kind of noise. Shock mixed with support mixed with disbelief.
My teammates were surrounding us now, creating a wall. Rook's hand on my shoulder. Mace standing close. Finn grinning like an idiot.
The cameras were everywhere. Flashing. Recording. Capturing this moment that we could never take back.
I turned to Grant, who was still holding my face like I might disappear. “I love you,” I said. Not whispered. Not explained. Just truth.
His eyes went bright. “I love you too.”
The team celebration continued around us—guys mobbing each other, shouting, the pure chaos of a playoff win. But the weight of what I’d just done settled over everything.
June was in the tunnel, frozen, phone pressed to her ear. Paul was somewhere in the press box, probably losing his mind.
But this was my moment. My choice.
I skated over to where the ice-level reporters were gathering, microphones already extended. Grant stayed at center ice with the team, watching.
The crowd noise died down slightly as people realized I was about to speak. One of the broadcast crews shoved a microphone toward me.
I took a breath and looked directly at the camera.
“Yeah, Grant Sutherland and I are together,” I said clearly.
Firmly. “We're in a relationship. That's real.
That's true.” I paused. “But we're not taking questions tonight. This is about the team. About the win. About making it to the next round.” Another pause.
“We're asking for privacy while we figure out what comes next. That's all I'm saying.”
“Jace, when did the relationship—”
“I said no questions.” I met the reporter's eyes. “Respect that.”
I skated back to center ice where Grant was waiting. He took my hand—right there, in front of everyone—and squeezed.
The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some sections cheering. Some quiet. Some probably shocked into silence.
But my teammates were there. Surrounding us. Rook stepped forward and raised both hands, gesturing for the crowd to make noise. And they did—the supportive sections getting louder, drowning out the rest.
Cameras kept flashing. Reporters kept trying to shout questions. But we ignored them.
Together, with the team around us like a shield, we skated toward the tunnel. Toward the locker room. Toward whatever came next.
The pain in my leg was still there. The shoulder still ached. My body was wrecked and would need weeks to recover.
But I'd never felt stronger.
Because I'd scored the penalty shot. I'd kissed Grant in front of the world. I'd told the truth without apology.
And whatever came next—the media circus, the league investigation, the scrutiny—we'd face it together.
Grant's hand stayed in mine the entire way to the locker room.
We'd survived.
And I'd done it as myself. Completely. Unapologetically. Free.
Finally.