Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Iburied myself in work over the next few days. It was the only thing that ever seemed to drown out the chaos in my head, and after Dani’s late-night visit in New York, my thoughts were louder than ever.
Boston’s home arena was buzzing by the time I got there, the team already warming up on the ice. I set up near the penalty box, scribbling notes and pretending not to notice Dani as she skated by, tossing pucks onto the ice like it was any other day.
She was good at that—pretending. She’d mastered the art of looking unbothered, her face unreadable, even when I knew she felt deeply.
I wished I could pretend that easily.
“Hey, Reese.” Sam waved as he walked by, camera in hand.
“Hi, Sam,” I said, forcing a smile.
I focused on my notes, jotting down stats and angles for the pre-game segment. I didn’t look up when the sound of skates approached, stopping just in front of me.
“You’re here early,” came Dani’s voice, casual and teasing.
My stomach flipped, but I didn’t let it show. “Just doing my job,” I said without looking up.
“Of course.” There was a pause, the kind that felt loaded. “You always were the hardest worker in the room.”
“Thanks,” I said shortly, hoping she’d take the hint.
She didn’t.
“Those skirts you wear during broadcasts should be outlawed, by the way. I’m always surprised when you don’t melt the ice.”
I looked up despite myself.
Dani was leaning against the boards in full gear—breezers and shoulder pads filling out her home jersey, the captain’s C on her chest impossible to miss. The metal cage of her helmet framed a grin she clearly wasn’t trying very hard to hide.
“Dani,” I warned.
The corner of her mouth twitched in that infuriatingly charming way.
“What?” she asked innocently. “Can’t a girl give a compliment?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but she pushed off the boards and skated away before I could think of something to say.
Which, annoyingly, was probably the point.
The arena filled quickly once the doors opened.
The low murmur of the crowd swelled into a steady buzz as puck drop approached.
From ice level, everything felt louder—the scrape of skates during warmups, sticks clacking against the boards, pucks thudding against the glass hard enough to make it tremble.
I stood near the boards with my notebook open, headset looped around my neck while Mara ran through the pregame rundown in my ear.
“Thirty seconds to Reese.”
Tonight wasn’t just another game—it was Cat’s night.
Fans clutched bobblehead boxes throughout the lower bowl, a tiny plastic version of Cat frozen mid–butterfly save in a gold medal jersey.
Kids held them up against the glass like trophies, pressing their faces close to compare the toy version with the real one gliding through warmups a few feet away.
Behind the bench, a group of college-aged fans had already taken theirs out of the boxes, lining them along the ledge of the boards like a tiny army of miniature goalies.
The lights dimmed and a cheer rippled through the arena as the video board flickered to life.
Clips rolled across the screen—Cat making sprawling saves in Team USA’s red, white and blue; Cat hoisting a world championship trophy; Cat collapsing onto a pile of teammates after a playoff win.
The arena announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Tonight we celebrate one of the most decorated goaltenders in the history of the game.”
The crowd roared.
I glanced toward the bench. Cat stood near the end of the player’s line with her helmet tucked under one arm, looking faintly embarrassed by the attention. A few teammates bumped her with their shoulders. Someone tapped the knob of their stick lightly against her shin pad.
Across the ice, Minnesota’s players leaned on their sticks and watched the video board, a few of them clapping politely.
Mara’s voice came alive in my ear: “Reese, you’re live in five.”
I straightened automatically, rolling my shoulders back and shifting my trusty notebook to one hand. The job took over like muscle memory.
Mara began the countdown. “Three … two …”
The red light on Sam’s camera blinked on.
“Good evening from Boston,” I said, slipping into my broadcaster voice.
“Tonight’s matchup carries serious playoff implications for both teams—but it’s also a celebration.
Boston’s goaltender Cat Pearson is being honored with a bobblehead giveaway and a pregame tribute recognizing a career that includes Olympic gold, multiple world championships, and more than a decade as one of the most reliable netminders in women’s professional hockey. ”
On the ice, Cat slid her helmet back on as the tribute wrapped up.
“And fittingly,” I continued, “Pearson will get the start tonight.”
The camera light blinked off.
“Nice,” Mara said in my ear. “Let’s make sure to get some face-time with Cat Pearson later if all goes well.”
“Copy that,” I confirmed.
The puck dropped a minute later, and Minnesota came out flying.
A turnover at the blue line turned into a breakaway so fast the entire building seemed to inhale at once. One of Minnesota’s forwards burst past Boston’s defenders, stickhandling once as she closed in on the net.
In her crease, Cat barely moved. She held her ground, knees bent, glove twitching once. At the last possible second, she dropped to her knees and swallowed the shot cleanly against her chest.
The ref’s whistle blew, and the crowd erupted.
I scribbled quickly in the margin of my notebook.
Cat – breakaway save early. Crowd loves it.
On the ice, Cat casually flipped the puck toward the official and skated a small circle through her crease like it was any other stop on any other day.
The game settled after that.
Despite Minnesota’s fast start, Boston controlled most of the first period, cycling the puck deep into Minnesota’s offensive zone. The sound of skates carving into the ice echoed against the boards as the forwards worked the puck low to high, forcing Minnesota’s defense to chase.
Dani’s line generated two solid scoring opportunities in the first period. The first came off a quick pass from behind the net that Dani snapped from the high slot without hesitation.
The puck smacked off Minnesota’s goalie’s blocker and ricocheted wide. A collective ohhh rolled through the crowd.
Between whistles, the arena kept returning to Cat’s storied career. The video board flashed more highlights and fans waved their bobbleheads in the air. One fan section started bobbing the collectables in unison every time Cat made a save, the tiny plastic heads nodding their approval.
Late in the second period, Boston finally broke through.
Dani started the play. She intercepted a pass in the neutral zone with a quick reach of her stick and immediately pushed the puck up ice, accelerating before Minnesota’s defense could reset.
Minnesota’s defender tried to angle her toward the boards, but Dani slipped past her.
Instead of taking the shot herself, she dished the puck wide to a winger streaking down the boards.
The shot came from the circle.
Goal.
Fans leapt to their feet. Towels spun overhead. The goal horn blared through the arena as the red light flashed behind the net.
Dani raised her stick as her teammates crowded the scorer behind the goal to celebrate.
Her grin flashed briefly through the cage of her helmet before she peeled away toward the bench.
For half a second, her eyes flicked toward the boards.
Toward me.
I looked back down at my notebook.
Professional.
That was the rule.
The third period tightened the way close games always did. Minnesota pushed hard in the final minutes, throwing everything they had toward the net.
Cat stopped it all: a rebound scramble, a screened slapshot from the point. One desperate glove save had the entire arena on its feet. Even the Minnesota bench leaned forward for that one.
When the final buzzer sounded, the home crowd roared again.
Players tapped gloves in the handshake line while Cat skated out of her crease to meet her teammates, her stick raised briefly toward the stands as fans cheered and waved their bobbleheads overhead.
“Great night for Pearson,” Mara said in my ear. “Let’s grab her if we can.”
“On it,” I replied.
Around me the broadcast crew began their usual postgame scramble. Sam lowered his camera and started breaking down his tripod while producers in the truck rattled through the final segment in my headset.
I delivered the quick postgame tag, summarizing the win and Cat’s performance, and then felt the familiar click in my ear as the segment ended.
“Clear,” Mara said.
Fans were still filing slowly up the aisles, many of them lingering near the glass to wave one last time at the players leaving the ice. Arena staff moved along the boards collecting stray pucks while the Zamboni doors rumbled open at the far end.
I packed my notebook into my workbag and slung the strap over my shoulder, already doing the mental math of the deadline ticking toward me: postgame quotes, two clean soundbites, maybe a quick locker room shot, and then straight home to write.
By the time I reached the locker room entrance and pushed through the door, I knew I was late.
The room was already crowded. Half a dozen cameras were pointed toward Cat’s stall, reporters shoulder-to-shoulder in front of her locker while microphones stretched over the cluster like fishing poles.
Someone had already claimed the prime spot directly in front of her.
Cat sat on the wooden bench in partial gear, her mask pushed up on top of her head, answering questions with a patient half-smile.
Good for Cat.
Bad for my deadline.
I waited at the edge of the scrum for a moment before realizing I wasn’t getting near her anytime soon, which left me standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.
And Dani sitting alone at her stall.
“Reese,” she said, her voice low enough that it didn’t carry over the noise of the locker room.
“Dani.” I tried to sound professional and unaffected.