Chapter 20
Nick
The locker room at TD Garden smelled different than any other rink I had ever played in. It smelled like history. It smelled like old sweat, stale champagne, and the ghosts of champions who had laced up their skates on these same wooden benches.
Four years.
Today, I sat here, and for the first time in my life, the silence in my head wasn't empty. It was peaceful.
"You good, Cap?"
I looked up. Jax was sitting two stalls over, taping his stick with a manic intensity. He was bouncing his leg. The nervous energy in the room was palpable—it was the National Championship game. The Frozen Four. The end of the line.
"I'm good," I said. And I meant it.
I looked around the room. I saw the faces of my teammates. Miller, Carter (who had finally stopped being an ass once he realized I wasn't going anywhere), the freshmen who looked like they were about to throw up.
I remembered who I was at the start of this season. The Ice King. The machine. I was isolated, arrogant, and miserably lonely. I thought strength meant not needing anyone.
Now, I knew better. Strength was admitting you were terrified and doing it anyway because someone was holding your hand.
I reached into my suit pocket hanging in the stall. I pulled out the cheap plastic keychain. The Golden Retriever. I tapped it against my knuckles—once, twice. A new ritual.
The door to the locker room opened.
Usually, this was forbidden territory. No wives, no girlfriends, no distractions.
But I had renegotiated the terms of my existence.
Jess walked in.
She was wearing a vintage Blackwood letterman jacket that was three sizes too big for her. Underneath, I could see the collar of my jersey. Her hair was a riot of copper curls, barely contained by a black ribbon.
The room went quiet for a second, then erupted in whistles.
"Queen of the North!" Jax yelled.
Jess rolled her eyes, smiling at him, but her gaze locked on me. She walked straight to my stall. She didn't look out of place. She looked like she owned the building.
"Hey," she said, stepping between my knees as I sat on the bench.
"Hey." I rested my hands on her waist. "You're not supposed to be back here. Security is tight."
"I charmed the guard," she shrugged. "I told him I had essential medical equipment for the Captain."
"Medical equipment?"
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a granola bar. "Peanut butter and chocolate. You didn't eat breakfast."
I laughed. It was a free, easy sound that still surprised me sometimes. "You are ridiculous."
"I am essential." She peeled the wrapper. "Eat. You need the fuel. You have sixty minutes of war ahead of you."
I took a bite. It tasted like sawdust and sugar, but because she gave it to me, it was ambrosia.
"Are you nervous?" she asked, smoothing the hair back from my forehead. Her fingers lingered on my temple.
"No," I said. "We're going to win."
"Arrogant."
"Accurate."
I swallowed the last of the bar. "My father is in the skybox. I saw the manifest."
Jess stiffened slightly, then relaxed. "Does it matter?"
"No," I said. "He's just a spectator now. He bought a ticket like everyone else."
That was the victory. Not the trophy we were about to play for, but the fact that his presence didn't make my heart rate spike. He was just a man in a suit. I was the man in the arena.
"Good," she whispered. She leaned down, pressing her forehead against mine. "Go out there and finish it, Nick. Close the chapter. Then we go home."
"Home," I echoed.
Home wasn't a place anymore. It wasn't the penthouse (which we had moved out of) or the brownstone in Chicago (which was waiting for us). Home was the heat of her skin. Home was the way she smelled like vanilla and resilience.
"Kiss me," I commanded softly.
"For luck?"
"For everything."
She kissed me. It wasn't a desperate goodbye or a frantic reunion. It was a grounding wire. It was steady and deep and filled with a promise of later.
"Alright, break it up, lovebirds!" Coach Harrison barked, walking in with his clipboard. "We have a championship to win!"
Jess pulled back, winking at me. "Kick some ass, Vance."
She turned and walked out, high-fiving Jax on the way.
I stood up. I put on my helmet. I snapped the chin strap.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror one last time. The grey eyes weren't dead anymore. They were burning.
"Let's go," I roared, hitting the door with my glove. "Let's bring it home!"
Jess
The energy in TD Garden was violent.
Eighteen thousand people screaming. The band blaring fight songs. The air thick with the smell of popcorn, beer, and anxiety.
I stood in the front row, right against the glass. I was wearing his jersey. VANCE 19.
Months ago, wearing this jersey had felt like putting a target on my back. It felt like I was an imposter, a "charity case" sneaking into a world of wealth and privilege.
Now? Now it felt like armor.
I looked down at my hand resting on the railing. A simple gold band sat on my right ring finger. It wasn't an engagement ring—not yet—but it was a promise ring Nick had given me when we signed the lease on the Chicago house. Ownership, he had called it. Mutual.
"I think I'm going to throw up," Mila yelled over the noise next to me. She was wearing a Blackwood scarf and clutching a giant foam finger. "Why is it so stressful? It's just a game involving a puck and knives on feet!"
"It's not just a game," I yelled back, my eyes glued to the tunnel. "It's the ending."
The lights dropped. The spotlights swirled.
The Blackwood Sentinels skated out.
The roar was deafening. I felt it in my teeth.
And there he was.
Nick led the line. He moved differently than the other players. They were frantic, bouncing with adrenaline. Nick was a shark in a swimming pool. Smooth. Lethal. Controlled.
He took his lap, circling the ice. He didn't look at the skybox where his father was sitting. He didn't look at the NHL scouts who were drooling over him in the press box.
He skated to the glass in front of me.
He stopped. A spray of ice coated the plexiglass.
He looked right at me. He lifted his glove and tapped the glass. Once.
I see you. You're mine.
I placed my hand against his on the other side of the glass.
He nodded, turned, and skated to the faceoff circle.
The puck dropped.
The game was a blur of violence and speed. It was Blackwood vs. Minnesota. Two titans.
I watched Nick with the eyes of a dancer. I saw the geometry of his movement. He wasn't just playing; he was conducting. He controlled the tempo. He slowed the game down when they needed to breathe, and he sped it up when they needed to kill.
But it wasn't easy. Minnesota was big, and they were dirty.
In the second period, a defenseman took a cheap shot at Nick's bad hip.
I gasped, gripping the railing.
Nick went down to one knee.
The old Nick—the machine—would have gotten up instantly, pretending he wasn't hurt, terrified of showing weakness.
This Nick stayed down for a second. He let his teammates defend him. Jax flew in, shoving the offender.
Nick stood up slowly. He rotated his hip. He grimaced.
Then he looked at Jax and laughed. He actually laughed. He patted Jax on the helmet and skated back to the line.
He wasn't afraid of the pain anymore. He knew he could survive it.
The score was tied 2-2 with one minute left in the third period.
"Overtime," Mila groaned. "My heart can't take overtime, Jess."
"No," I said, watching Nick's body language. He was coiled. Ready. "He's not going to overtime."
Faceoff in the offensive zone. Thirty seconds left.
Nick leaned over his stick. He looked at the opposing center. He said something—probably something devastatingly witty and arrogant.
The ref dropped the puck.
Nick won it clean back to the point. The defenseman shot. The goalie saved it, but the rebound kicked out loose.
It was chaos in front of the net. Bodies flying. Sticks hacking.
And then, out of the scrum, a flash of black jersey.
Nick found the puck. He didn't shoot immediately. He had a split second of patience—that glacial control that defined him. He waited for the goalie to commit.
Then, with a flick of his wrists, he roofed it.
Top shelf. Water bottle popping.
Goal.
The horn blasted. The red light spun.
3-2 Blackwood. 10 seconds left.
The arena exploded. I was screaming. Mila was screaming. I was jumping up and down, hugging strangers.
But I never took my eyes off him.
He didn't do a celebration lap. He didn't posture. He raised his arms, let his teammates mob him, and then, as the clock ticked down to zero and the gloves flew into the air, he stood at center ice and just breathed.
He looked up at the rafters. He closed his eyes.
He had done it. He had finished the legacy on his own terms.
The team piled onto the goalie. Confetti cannons fired, filling the air with black and silver paper. Queen’s "We Are The Champions" started blasting.
Nick extricated himself from the pile. He skated over to the bench to shake hands.
Then, the ceremony.
The trophy. The giant silver cup.
The Commissioner handed it to Nick.
He lifted it. He hoisted it over his head with a primal roar that I could hear even over the music. His face was pure joy. Not relief. Not duty. Joy.
He skated a lap with it.
Then he did something that wasn't in the script.
He skated to the gate where the Zamboni entered. He yelled something to the security guard. The guard hesitated, then opened the gate.
Nick skated off the ice. He walked on his skates across the rubber mats toward the stands.
"What is he doing?" Mila asked.
"I think..." My heart started to hammer. "I think he's coming here."
He walked right up to the railing where I was standing. The crowd parted for him. He was sweaty, bleeding from a cut on his lip, holding a thirty-pound trophy.
He looked up at me.
"Come down here," he yelled.
"I can't! It's restricted!"
"I'm the Captain!" he shouted, grinning like a maniac. "I make the rules! Come down here, Jess!"
I laughed. I hopped over the railing, dropping the five feet to the concrete floor.
Nick caught me with one arm, holding the trophy with the other.