Chapter 20
Max
The locker room of the TD Garden in Boston smelled different than the one at Blackwood. It smelled of history. Of banners hanging in the rafters. Of professional dreams realized and shattered on the same sheet of ice.
We weren't pros yet. Not technically. But tonight was the NCAA Frozen Four Championship. The final game of the college season. The final game of my life as a student.
I sat in my stall, my pads already strapped on. I was running a roll of tape over my stick blade. Heel to toe. Smooth lines. No bubbles.
Around me, the room vibrated with nervous energy. Jinx was pacing, muttering to himself about lucky socks. Miller was vomiting in the bathroom (a pre-game ritual). Leo was sitting quietly, staring at the C on his jersey.
I looked down at my hands. They were steady.
Six months ago, I would have been in this stall, staring at the floor, building a mental wall brick by brick. I would have been isolating myself, convincing myself that I was a fortress of one. I would have been terrified of a single mistake costing me my future.
Now?
I looked up. I caught Leo’s eye. He nodded. A grim, determined nod, but there was respect in it. We weren't friends—not really—but we were brothers in arms.
I stood up.
"Listen up," I said.
The room went quiet. The Warden didn't give speeches. The Warden gave glares.
"We worked for four years for this night," I said, my voice carrying easily over the hum of the ventilation. "We bled for it. We froze for it. But tonight isn't about the work. It’s about the trust."
I looked at Jinx. I looked at Miller, who had emerged from the bathroom looking pale but ready.
"I trust you guys to clear the crease," I said. "You trust me to stop the puck. That’s the deal. We don't play for the scouts. We don't play for the cameras. We play for the guy sitting next to us."
I picked up my mask.
"Let's go make some history."
The boys erupted. Shouting. Banging sticks on the floor. It was a primal, chaotic noise.
I smiled.
I walked out of the locker room, down the long concrete tunnel toward the ice. The roar of the crowd grew louder with every step—17,000 people screaming for blood.
Just before the tunnel opened up to the bench, I stopped.
There was a small alcove near the Zamboni entrance. A shadow stood there.
Imogen.
She was wearing a vintage Kodiaks jersey (mine, obviously) tucked into leather pants, and a beanie pulled low over her platinum hair. She was holding a plastic cup of beer and looking like she owned the entire arena.
She saw me. Her face lit up.
"Hey, superstar," she grinned. "Nice speech. I heard it from here."
"I didn't know you were lurking," I said, stepping into her space. I couldn't touch her—I was covered in bulky gear—but I leaned close enough to smell her perfume. Peonies and arena popcorn.
"I'm not lurking," she corrected. "I'm performing a vital pre-game ritual."
"Which is?"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a black Sharpie.
"Give me your hand," she ordered.
I held out my blocker glove. She shook her head.
"The skin, Max."
I pulled off the blocker. I held out my bare hand.
She uncapped the marker. On the inside of my wrist, right over my pulse, she drew a small, jagged line. It looked like a crack. Or a lightning bolt.
"What is it?" I asked, looking at the ink.
"It's a crack," she said, capping the pen. "To remind you that you don't have to be perfect. You just have to be unbroken."
She looked up at me, her hazel eyes fierce.
"Let the light in, Warden."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"I love you," I whispered.
"I know," she kissed my cheek, careful of the helmet. "Now go out there and be a wall. But like... a wall with personality."
She swatted my padded ass.
"Go."
I put my glove back on. I walked out of the tunnel and onto the ice.
The noise was deafening. The lights were blinding.
But as I skated to the crease, scraping the ice to mark my territory, I wasn't thinking about the scouts. I wasn't thinking about the pressure.
I looked at my wrist, hidden under the glove.
Unbroken.
I tapped my posts. Clang. Clang.
Game on.
The Game
They say time slows down in big moments. That’s a lie. Time speeds up. It becomes a blur of instinct and reaction.
We were playing the University of Denver. The number one seed. They were faster than us. Bigger than us.
The first period was a siege. They fired 15 shots. I stopped 15 shots.
My body moved on autopilot. Butterfly. Recover. Post-to-post. Glove high. Blocker low. I was sweating, my muscles burning, but my mind was clear.
Second period. Denver scored on a deflection. 1-0.
The crowd groaned. I saw Jinx slam his stick against the boards in frustration.
I skated out to him during the TV timeout.
"Hey," I grabbed his shoulder pad. "Shake it off. It was a lucky bounce. We get it back."
Jinx looked at me, surprised. The old Max would have stared straight ahead, blaming the defense silently.
"Right," Jinx nodded. "Got it, Cap."
I wasn't the Captain. But in that moment, I was leading.
Leo scored two minutes later. 1-1.
Third period. The clock ticked down. 10 minutes. 5 minutes. 2 minutes.
It was tied.
Denver was pressing. They were relentless.
With thirty seconds left, their star forward broke loose. A partial breakaway.
He came in hot. He faked a slap shot. I didn't bite. He dragged the puck to his backhand, trying to roof it.
I pushed off my right skate. I exploded across the crease. I threw my glove hand up in a desperate, flailing arc.
Thwack.
I felt the impact in my wrist. I closed the glove.
I fell onto my back, sliding into the net.
Did I have it?
The buzzer sounded. End of regulation.
The ref skated over. He looked in my glove.
I opened it.
The black puck sat there, nestled in the webbing like a bird in a nest.
"No goal," the ref signaled.
We were going to overtime.
Overtime
Sudden death. Next goal wins.
The locker room during the intermission was quiet. Heavy. Everyone was exhausted.
I sat in my stall, drinking water, staring at the floor.
My phone buzzed in my bag. I wasn't supposed to check it.
I checked it anyway.
Imogen: I’m drawing you right now. You look like a warrior. Finish it.
I smiled.
I put the phone away.
We went back out.
Five minutes into overtime.
Jinx carried the puck into the zone. He got hit hard along the boards. The puck squirted loose.
Miller picked it up. He centered it to Leo.
Leo shot.
The Denver goalie made the save, but the rebound kicked out.
I watched from the other end of the ice, holding my breath.
Jinx, who had picked himself up, drove to the net. He swatted at the loose puck.
It trickled. It bounced. It slid...
Across the line.
The red light turned on.
The horn blared.
For a second, silence in my head.
Then, bedlam.
Gloves flew into the air. Sticks were thrown. The bench cleared. My teammates were sprinting toward Jinx.
I stood in my crease, watching the celebration at the other end.
We won. We were National Champions.
I pulled off my mask. I let it drop to the ice.
I looked up at the rafters. I took a deep breath, smelling the victory, the sweat, the beer.
Then, I skated.
I skated toward the pile of black and gold jerseys. I jumped into the huddle. I was crushed by bodies. Someone punched my helmet. Someone screamed in my face.
It was chaos. Beautiful, perfect chaos.
The Celebration
The trophy presentation was a blur. Leo lifting the cup. Passing it to me. The weight of it—silver and heavy and cold—in my hands. I kissed it. I hoisted it over my head. The flashbulbs popped.
Confetti rained down. Gold and black paper strips sticking to our sweaty faces.
The team took a lap around the ice with the trophy.
I skated toward the Zamboni entrance.
The security guards were holding back the families.
I saw her.
She was jumping up and down, screaming, hugging Chloe. She saw me coming.
She ran to the glass.
I skated right up to the barrier.
"Open the gate!" I yelled at the guard.
"Sir, family only on the ice after the—"
"She is family!" I roared. "Open the damn gate!"
The guard looked at the trophy in my hands. He opened the gate.
Imogen ran onto the ice. She slipped immediately in her boots.
I dropped the trophy (sorry, NCAA) and caught her.
I lifted her up, spinning her around. Her legs wrapped around my waist, bulky pads and all.
"You did it!" she screamed, grabbing my face. "You won! You actually won!"
"We won," I corrected, breathless.
I kissed her.
Right there. Center ice. In front of 17,000 people. In front of the ESPN cameras. In front of the scouts. In front of her father, who I knew was watching from a suite.
I kissed her with everything I had. It wasn't a polite kiss. It was a claiming. It was a statement.
The crowd cheered louder than they had for the goal.
When I pulled back, she was laughing, tears streaming down her face. She wiped a smudge of sweat off my cheek.
"You smell terrible," she said.
"I smell like a champion," I grinned.
"Same thing," she kissed me again.
Jinx skated by, wearing the net like a hat. "Get a room, you two! We have a party to go to!"
"Go away, Jinx!" Imogen shouted, flipping him off without looking away from me.
I set her down on the ice, keeping my arm around her waist to steady her.
I looked around the arena. The confetti was still falling. The fans were still cheering. My teammates were hugging their parents.
I looked at Imogen.
"This is it," I said. "College is over."
"Yeah," she said, leaning her head on my shoulder. "End of an era."
"You ready for the next one?" I asked.
"Montreal?" she asked.
"Montreal," I nodded. "And the house. And the studio."
"I'm ready," she said. "As long as you promise to keep the grey sheets. I've grown attached to them."
"Deal."
I picked up the trophy with one hand, holding Imogen with the other.
We skated a lap together. The goalie and the artist. The wall and the chaos.
And for the first time in my life, I didn't care about the stats. I didn't care about the shutout.
I just cared that when I looked to my right, she was there.
One Month Later
Graduation day at Blackwood University was a formal, stuffy affair. Black robes. Square hats. Speeches about "The Future" and "Leadership."
It was hot on the quad. The sun beat down on thousands of graduates.
I sat in the Engineering section. Imogen sat in Fine Arts.
When my name was called—Maxwell Vane, Bachelor of Science in Civil Engineering, Summa Cum Laude—the applause was polite.
When I walked across the stage, Dean Sterling was waiting. He was handing out the diplomas.
I stopped in front of him.
He looked at me. He looked at the NHL contract I had signed two weeks ago. He looked at the ring I had in my pocket (not an engagement ring yet, but a promise ring—a simple silver band that matched the crack she drew on my wrist).
He held out the diploma.
"Congratulations, Mr. Vane," he said stiffly.
"Thank you, Dean," I said, taking it.
He held onto the folder for a second longer than necessary.
"She's happy," he said quietly. "Freakishly happy. She's actually... focused."
"I know," I said.
"Keep her that way," the Dean said. "Or I will still find a way to ruin you."
"Understood," I smirked.
I walked off the stage.
I waited by the side.
Ten minutes later. Imogen Sterling, Bachelor of Fine Arts.
She walked across the stage. She wasn't wearing the standard black heels. She was wearing combat boots painted with glitter.
She shook her father’s hand. He actually smiled. A real smile.
She walked down the steps.
I was waiting.
She ran to me. We hugged, our mortarboards clashing.
"We did it," she said. "We're free."
"Free," I echoed.
We walked away from the ceremony together, hand in hand, leaving the gowns and the speeches behind.
We walked to my truck, which was already packed with boxes. My boxes. Her boxes.
We threw our caps in the back seat.
I started the engine.
"Where to?" I asked, looking at her in the passenger seat.
She put her feet up on the dashboard. She pulled out a map—an actual paper map—and unfolded it.
"North," she said, pointing a finger. "Keep going until we hit Canada. Then take a left at the first poutine stand."
I laughed. I put the truck in gear.
I looked in the rearview mirror one last time. I saw the spires of Blackwood University. I saw the hockey arena where I had bled. I saw the dorms where I had hidden.
I didn't feel any nostalgia. I just felt relief.
I looked at Imogen. She was singing along to the radio, her hand dancing out the window in the wind.
I reached out and took her hand.
"Ready?" I asked.
"Always," she said.
I stepped on the gas.
The truck roared onto the highway, heading north, toward the glass house, the skylight, and the beautiful, messy chaos of the rest of our lives.