Epilogue
“ M aeve, hurry up, or we’re going to be late!” I shout up the stairs to her as I slip on my tennis shoes and throw my purse over my body.
Tonight’s the big game, the highest point of every college hockey player’s career. And for Mason, it’s his last time in the Frozen Four Championship.
“I’m coming!” she shouts down at me and rushes down the stairs, putting her earrings in at the same time. “Your car or mine?”
“Mine.” I flash my keys in my hand.
She grabs her purse, and we’re out the door, locking the house up behind us.
I still cannot believe we only have a couple of months left here before my mom is selling it. But I don’t have time to dwell on that fact right now. Tonight is all about Mason.
We jump into my Jeep and take off for the arena, a fire under my ass to get there as fast as possible.
“You do know the game doesn’t start for another hour and a half, right?” Maeve asks, and I nervously chuckle.
My fingers wring the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white. “I knoooow. But this is such a big game for him, and I want to be in my seat before they take the ice for warm-ups.”
She rolls her eyes playfully, and I take the opportunity to brake-check her, simply for my own entertainment.
She catches herself on the dash. “You bitch.”
Laughter bubbles out of us as we speed toward the North Stars’ arena, heading into the city.
I don’t know how we managed to luck out, having the game on our home turf, but I know none of the Mammoths are complaining about it. Our team is going to fill every seat in that arena.
When we finally arrive, we grab the slip for the parking garage before quickly parking and heading toward the arena. My anxiety is eating me alive. I swear I get more nervous for his games than he does.
I answer my mom’s call as we step inside, and Maeve scans our tickets for us before we go through security.
“Hey, we’re walking in right now. Are you guys here?” I hurriedly ask.
“Yeah. Cheryl and I already have your drinks, and I got you popcorn from the gluten-free stand. See you in a second.” She ends the call right in time for me to drop my phone into the security tray.
We pass through with ease and race to our seats, which seem forever away as we circle the hallway toward section one hundred and one.
Mason’s mom, Cheryl, and mine wave to us the second we reach the top of the stairs. Descending to our row, we scoot past them and take our seats, and right as I look up through the glass, I lock eyes with Mason, who’s standing in the tunnel.
Nodding sharply, I hold his stare, and without a word, we seem to have an entire conversation.
I mutter under my breath, “You got this, baby.”
Mason nods his head—that cute little thing he does to mentally lock in.
Someone pops out of line and it takes me a moment to realize it’s Chet. He waves vigorously.
I laugh, waving back.
The announcer shouts into the mic, “Here are your Northern Minnesota University Mammoths!”
Our team skates out, and my heart jumps into my throat. I have no idea how I’m going to get through this game without passing out. I want us to win so badly that I can’t think straight.
After the first few warm-up drills, the other goalie takes the net, and Mason takes the opportunity to skate over to us, leaning against the glass.
He winks at me, and I feel a blush spread rapidly across my cheeks. No matter how long we’re together, every glance from him makes my knees feel like they’re going to give out.
“Go, Mason!” his mom shouts, pumping her fist into the air.
He lifts his glove to the glass, and she does the same with her fist, bumping each other.
He glances back at me as he starts to skate off, and I mouth the words, I love you.
Holding my stare, he lifts his mask off of his face and shouts as loudly as he can, “I love you!”
My skin erupts in goose bumps as a giggle bubbles out of me. “I love you too!” I shout back, not caring who is going to hear or see me.
He skates back to his net, and they finish warming up before heading off the ice for the Zamboni to ready it for the game.
Twenty minutes later, I’m on the edge of my seat, and the puck is being dropped at center ice.
We take control right away, and Chet skates off to the other end, breaking into the zone with Ryan and Zach right behind him.
Our two defenders breach the blue line, helping to pass the puck around as they search for an opening to make a move. Chet skates through the slot, pulling two defensemen his way, and Ryan sees an opportunity.
Zach draws his defender away with the puck as Ryan sinks into the opening created.
Zach dishes the puck his way in one clean swoop. Ryan slaps the puck with his stick and sends it flying so fast that my eyes can’t even track it until I just notice the swish at the back of the net.
“Yes!!” I jump up, screaming, smacking my hand against the glass as the arena explodes with cheers.
Mason slaps his stick on the ground in celebration as our guys skate toward our bench, Ryan leading the way with Zach right behind him and the other three following. They bump gloves with the guys on the bench before switching out for a different line and defensive pair.
They set back up at center ice, and we’re off again.
But this time, no one scores on the first possession, or the next, or at all during the next fifty minutes of game play.
But as we enter the final ten minutes, the atmosphere shifts around us, tense and rigid.
Their opponents—the Titans—are getting really chippy, taking cheap shots on our guys and even starting to poke and prod at Mason.
One guy has already found out what happens when they touch him, but apparently, they haven’t learned their lesson about not touching our goalie.
The Titans gain possession and fly down the ice toward Mase. A few passes later, and there’s a pileup in front of the goal, Mason at the bottom.
Time passes uncomfortably as everyone starts screaming at the ref for not stopping play.
The ref blows his whistle, and everyone settles down for less than a second before we see the ref’s hand point at the net, signaling a goal for the Titans.
Their team goes crazy, cheering and talking at our guys—shit, I’m sure—as they skate away toward their bench to celebrate.
The crowd is livid .
Chants break out as everyone yells, “Ref, you suck! Ref, you suck! Ref, you suck!”
Mason’s slow to get up, but he glances over at me and nods, assuring me he’s okay.
Thank God .
Everyone looks up at the replay on the display above.
Mason clearly has control of the puck, but then one of their guys knocks it out from his glove, stealing control, and he jabs it into the goal with his stick.
“Ref, you suck!” continues to ring out through the arena as the refs huddle up, the captains of both teams waiting just a few feet away.
A few moments later, the head official skates out to the center of the ice and talks into the mic, gesturing with his hand that the goal is good.
The arena shakes with anger at the bad call. It was clear as day that Mason had possession, which should’ve stopped the play.
Mason looks over at me, and I shake my head, telling him to brush it off. That goal might not be his fault, but the game is now tied, and everyone—players, coaches, fans—are all pissed off as the face-off is set back up at center ice.
Five minutes left.
The Mammoths win the face-off and head into their zone, Mason in position and ready for anything.
“Come on, baby. You got this,” I mutter under my breath.
They set up a play, dekeing one of our defenders out and firing an open shot toward the top-right corner. But Mason reads him like a book, catching the puck.
One of the Titans players skates up on him, spraying him with ice long after the play is dead.
Mason stands up tall on his skates, towering over the small forward and looking down on him with an intimidating stance, a smile stretching across his face. Which certainly shouldn’t look as hot as it does.
Two of our guys drag the Titans player away as he chirps at Mason, who ignores him and turns back to his net. He tosses the puck to the ref and gets a drink from his bottle.
Two minutes left.
We need to score. If this goes into overtime, my heart might actually explode.
Both teams fight for control, neither able to maintain possession as they battle up and down the ice.
One minute left.
“Let’s go, Mammoths. Let’s go!”
THUMP. THUMP .
The cheers erupt from the crowd, and we join in, screaming along as the clock ticks away.
Fifty seconds left.
Forty seconds left.
Thirty seconds left.
Twenty seconds left.
A glimmer of hope appears as Brock steals the puck from the Titans and flings it down the ice to Chet, who is digging into the ice like his life depends on it, with a defenseman right behind him.
“Go, Chet! Go!” I scream, my voice raw and ragged as I smack the glass as hard as I can, standing to my feet.
The defenseman tries to trip him up with his stick, but Chet maneuvers around it and manages to put a tiny bit of space between them.
Chet catches the puck on his stick right after entering the zone. Flying across the ice, he fakes right, and the goalie eats it up, falling for it. Chet pulls it left and backhands it easily into the net.
“Yes!” I jump up and down, as does everyone around me.
Maeve leaps into my arms, and I catch her, easing her fall back to the ground.
I turn to the glass and smack both palms on it as everything around us turns into one blurred celebration and cheer.
Mason locks eyes with me, and he takes off running on his skates, hard and fast.
Gliding on the ice, he jumps into the air and throws himself into the boards right in front of me.
I smack the glass repeatedly, continuing to jump up and down.
“You did it! You did it!” I scream over and over.
We bump fists through the glass, and that’s all the time we have before he turns to his team, every teammate barreling down the ice toward him.
I take back what I thought earlier . This is a dogpile.
But one that I’m sure Mason is happy to be a part of.