Chapter 34
Connor
Third period. Eight fucking minutes left. And we're down by two.
The Enterprise Center's packed with eighteen thousand screaming people, half of them here to watch us lose our championship.
Not happening. Not fucking happening.
Western Michigan's been cycling the puck in our zone for the last minute, and my thighs are on fire. I’ve been on the ice way too fucking long. Need the goddamn whistle to blow.
Their center fires from the point. Viktor kicks out his right pad, and I'm already moving before the rebound even settles. Their winger gets there first, takes a wrist shot, but Viktor sprawls like the beautiful bastard he is, smothering the puck.
Whistle.
Fucking finally.
I hop over the boards and take my spot on the bench, grabbing water. Jenkins sits next to me. Game’s been fucking brutal. No matter what we do, Western Michigan answers right back.
“Good fucking job out there, Henneman,” Nieminen says.
Ryan smirks at our coach. “Which one?”
I snort. “Fucking smart ass.”
My husband winks at me, then drops onto the bench beside Zach.
Nieminen stares at Ryan, lips pressed into a tight line. “I wasn’t talking to your husband. Not when we’re still down by two.”
Coach can fuck right off. I’m not the only one on the team who can score. But I don't want to lose this game —not when it's my last. No fucking way I’m ending my hockey career losing the championship.
Jenkins puts his water back on the shelf, shaking his head. “Still weird as fuck that you both have the same name now.”
“Don’t give a fuck what you think.”
The Walsh name can rot in hell with my dead parents.
Out on the ice, our second line's getting hemmed in our zone. Can't get a clean breakout.
Jenkins leans forward on the bench. “Their fucking left winger keeps cheating up. See him?”
I track the player who’s already at our blue line, waiting to pick off a pass. “He's been doing that shit all game.”
Our defenseman tries to rim it around the boards but Western Michigan's winger intercepts. Exactly like I knew he would.
Jenkins spits on the floor. “Someone needs to put him on his ass.”
“Knight will handle it next shift.”
“Why not your husband? He’s been a fucking beast out there all game.”
Five months ago, he took a bullet for me, and now here he is, destroying everyone who touches the puck like the animal I know he is. Like my fucking grizzly bear. After this game, after we win this fucking championship, I'm going to show him exactly how proud of him I am.
And this summer, I'm settling some debts. Kai found those fuckers from the group home—three of them, living normal lives like they didn't destroy my husband.
Not for much longer.
On the ice, Western Michigan cycles the puck back to the point, their defenseman winding up for a slap shot.
“Screen.” Jenkins and I both call it at the same time.
Sure enough, their center plants his ass right in Viktor's face. The shot goes high, clanging off the crossbar, the sound echoing through the arena.
Too fucking close.
“Twenty-eight's got a tell. Drops his right shoulder before he shoots.” Every little fucking detail matters when we’re down by two.
“First line, you're up!” Nieminen barks.
Coach is shortening the bench. Smart. Can't afford to fuck around with three minutes left.
I vault over the boards, Jenkins right behind me, and skate to the face-off circle.
Western Michigan's center is already there. “Give up now, Henneman. You fucks aren’t getting the trophy this year.”
I lean in. “Check the scoreboard in three minutes.”
The ref drops the puck and I win it clean, sending it back to Zach. Western Michigan’s center tries to tie up my stick but I'm driving through him with my shoulder.
Zach passes to our left winger who carries it up the boards. As I cut through the neutral zone, their defenseman grabs my jersey but I drive my elbow back into his ribs.
No call.
Jenkins has the puck now, crossing the blue line. He passes to Ryan, who's streaking down the left side. Their defenseman steps up but Ryan dekes around him.
Fuck, that's hot.
I plant myself in front of their net. Their goalie's trying to track Ryan, but I'm making damn sure he can't see shit. Their defenseman cross-checks me in the back, and when the ref's watching the puck in the corner, I slash him across the ankle.
“Fucking pussy.”
I snort, battling his stick. “Whatever makes you feel better, bitch.”
My husband doesn’t have a clear shot, so he passes to Jenkins who then cycles the puck back to the point. Zach walks the blue line, then takes a shot. The puck comes low, but I get my stick on it, redirecting it over the goalie’s left pad.
The red light goes on.
The arena explodes.
“Let's fucking go!” Jenkins crashes into me, then Ryan's there, wrapping his arms around both of us. His face is pure fucking joy.
Ryan presses the front of his helmet against mine. “Beautiful redirect.”
“Still need two more to win it.”
We skate back to the bench, but Nieminen’s keeping us out.
Two minutes left.
Western Michigan wins the face-off, and their center immediately dumps it into our zone. Their winger chases it down behind the net while Viktor tracks him, sliding post to post.
Fuck.
Their center sets up in the slot. I'm battling the fucker, trying to clear him out while Zach pressures the winger. The puck comes out the other side to their defenseman at the point.
Jenkins tries to block the shooting lane, but the puck gets through.
Viktor makes the save but gives up a fucking rebound.
Shit.
Western Michigan’s winger gains possession and passes cross ice. Ryan intercepts the puck and then takes off. He hits the blue line at full speed. Their left defenseman tries to angle him off, but Ryan chips it between the guy's legs and burns around him.
Holy fuck.
My husband’s on a breakaway.
I skate hard to catch up, but I can't take my eyes off him. The way he shifts his weight and sells the shot to the glove side. Their goalie bites, dropping into the butterfly.
Ryan pulls it to his backhand and roofs it.
The red light. The horn.
And the buzzer.
We’re going into overtime.
Ryan's skating around behind their net, and I catch up to him, slamming into his side. “Fucking beautiful, baby.”
He stumbles but laughs. “We're not done yet. Going to make sure you win your last game.”
I bump him with my shoulder. “Bet I score the winning goal.”
“Yeah? What do I get if I win it for us?”
Oh, this motherfucker.
Jenkins crashes into us from behind. “Save the foreplay for later, assholes!”
Nieminen is glaring at us from the bench. “Move your goddamn asses! You didn’t win shit yet!”
Ryan chuckles, then looks cross ice and waves. Larry’s there, smiling wide, giving him a thumbs up, then he nods at me. About time he starts accepting I’m not going anywhere.
“Your foster dad better get it through his thick fucking head that I’m not sleeping in the guest room this summer.”
Ryan rolls his eyes. “He’s coming around. Give him time.”
“What-fucking-ever.”
“You know he’s proud you’re starting law school in the fall. So am I.”
I grunt as I step off the ice and make my way toward the locker room. Still fucking weird hearing people say they’re proud of me, of them supporting my decisions for my own damn life. Even when it meant not going to the NHL but starting law school at NYU instead.
The locker room's tense. We’re all trying to catch our breaths, to keep our heads in the game. Nieminen gives us one of his motivational speeches. But we all know the next goal will either bring us victory or send us home empty-handed.
Ten minutes later, we're back on the ice. Time to finish this fucking thing, to take home the trophy one more time.
Overtime’s brutal. Just constant back and forth. Western Michigan nearly scores twice. We return the favor.
But the puck refuses to go into the net.
One minute left.
Their winger tries to cut through center ice. I line him up and destroy him with an open ice hit. “Stay down, bitch.”
But Western Michigan has the puck in our zone. Their defenseman winds up from the point. I drop to block the shot, but he fakes it, passing cross ice instead.
Fuck.
Their winger one times it. Viktor makes the save, but there's another guy crashing the net. And another. Too many fucking bodies.
Wait.
I look back at their end. Empty net.
They pulled their goalie.
There’s a scramble in our crease. Zach’s shoving, hip checking, doing whatever it takes to clear these fuckers out. Viktor drops and covers the puck with his glove.
The refs blow the whistle
Face-off in our zone again. Six attackers.
Western Michigan wins possession. The puck goes back to the point—another shot. I get a piece of it, but it deflects to their winger. He shoots. Viktor stops it and controls the rebound.
He doesn't even look, just launches the puck down the ice because we need the icing call. It’ll give us time to reset, to get fresh legs out here.
Only . . . holy shit.
The puck’s perfectly lined up.
One of their players dives, swinging their stick. But it’s too late. The puck slides right into the middle of their empty net.
A goalie goal.
A fucking goalie goal.
Viktor just won us the championship.
Sticks and gloves go flying, our bench clears, and everyone gets on to the ice. Jenkins jumps on Viktor, who's grinning at Coach Harper.
Ryan skates over to me, helmet off, sweat dripping down his face. But his smile is so fucking bright. “We fucking did it.”
“We did. But neither of us won that bet.”
He laughs.
I grab his jersey and yank him against me, claiming his mouth in front of eighteen thousand people, including our teammates.
Mine. My husband. My family.
His arms wrap around my neck, and he kisses me back just as hard.
My hockey career might be over, but my life with Ryan? That's just getting started.