Chapter 32
Skyler
The first shift was electric—and not because anything extraordinary happened. It was a standard forechecking sequence: win the puck, cycle in the offensive zone, and get a decent shot on goal. What made that first shift special was how I could feel it.
The energy.
The focus.
The way my legs felt lighter and my hands softer and my vision seemed wider than usual.
I was on. Seriously. On fire.
And I knew why.
It was simple.
In Section 108, Row M, there were four people who hadn’t been to a game all season, one of whom was wearing my jersey and was watching me play professional hockey for the first time.
That knowledge hummed through me as I skated back to the bench.
It made everything feel sharper and more important, as though I wasn’t only performing for twenty thousand fans and however many others watching on TV, but I was also skating for one person in particular who mattered more than all the rest combined.
That was new. It was terrifying.
And it was everything.
“Good shift, Cap,” Tyler said as we bumped gloves on the bench.
“Felt good.”
“You look dialed in,” Erik added as he kicked a leg over the board.
“I’m so fuckin’ dialed in.”
Tyler’s grin was knowing. “Must be nice, having someone special watching.”
“Shut up and get a drink. We’ll be back on in no time.”
He wasn’t wrong. It was nice.
Actually, it was more than nice—it was intoxicating.
Every time I glimpsed Section 108 during a line change or a TV timeout, something in my chest expanded.
The game flowed around us as my mind spun.
Nashville was playing well, their forecheck was aggressive, and their goalie was having one of those nights where everything seemed to hit him square in the logo; but we were matching their intensity, and I could feel our team building momentum with each shift.
Midway into the first period, we broke through.
During one of our few power plays of the game, Erik blasted a wrist shot from the point that deflected off a Nashville defenseman and fluttered past their goalie like a wounded bird. The arena erupted. I raised my stick along with everyone else, but my eyes flew straight to Section 108.
Jacks was on his feet, arms in the air, surrounded by his friends, who were cheering just as loudly. The sight of him celebrating our goal, my team’s goal, made fireworks explode beneath my skin.
I wanted to acknowledge him.
The impulse was so strong it was almost physical.
Every part of me begged to skate over to the boards, point up at the stands, and make it clear to everyone how happy I was that he was there.
I managed to resist.
Barely.
The second period was a grind.
Nashville pushed back hard, tying the game on a deflection that our goalie had no chance against. The energy in the building shifted, comfortable confidence replaced by the tighter focus of a game that could go either way.
During one TV timeout, I caught Jacks looking down at the ice, and when our eyes met, he raised his hand. It wasn’t quite a wave but was enough of a gesture that I knew he was thinking about me, too.
The feeling that gave me was better than any pre-game speech I’d ever heard.
The third period started with us on a power play, and I could feel the opportunity building before it happened. The puck movement was crisp, everyone was in sync, and when Tyler sent a pass across to me at the top of the zone, I knew what I was going to do before the puck even reached my stick.
One-timer.
Top corner.
Bar down.
The puck exploded off my stick, a perfect release that sent it whistling through traffic and into the net with the kind of sound that every hockey player lives for, that sharp ping of rubber hitting twine.
Goal!
The arena went insane.
My teammates mobbed me. Tyler arrived first with a crushing hug. Erik lifted me clean off the ice in a celebration that should’ve broken several ribs. The crowd noise was so loud I could feel it vibrating in my chest.
But through all of it, through the hugs, the cheers, and the chaos of celebration, my eyes kept landing on Section 108.
Jacks was losing his mind.
He was on his feet, arms in the air, shouting something I couldn’t hear over the crowd noise. His friends were jumping around him, but all I could see was the pure joy on his features, the way he was celebrating my goal like it was the most important thing that had ever happened.
The sight of him, my guy, wearing my jersey while celebrating a goal I’d scored, nearly brought me to my knees.
I wanted to point at him.
I wanted to blow him a kiss.
I wanted to skate over to the boards and gesture up at the stands and make it clear to everyone in the arena that this goal, this moment, this feeling was all for him.
Instead, I tapped my stick on the ice twice. It was a slight gesture, nothing that would register to most people watching, but it was deliberate enough that if he was looking for it, he might understand.
This goal was for you.
The celebration continued around me as we skated toward the bench, high-fiving the guys, acknowledging the crowd, riding the wave of energy that comes with taking the lead in a close game.
The rest of the game passed in a blur of controlled chaos.
Nashville pressed hard for the equalizer.
We pushed back to extend our lead.
By the time the final buzzer sounded, we won 4 to 2 in a game that felt bigger and more important than any random Thursday night contest had a right to feel.
I raised my stick to acknowledge the crowd as we skated off, my eyes finding Section 108 one more time.
Jacks was on his feet again. I doubted he’d sat once all night.
He was still applauding, and when he caught me looking, he pressed his hand to his chest—right over the numbers on my jersey—and mouthed something I couldn’t make out.
As I disappeared into the tunnel, surrounded by mates and the good-natured chaos of a team that had played well and won, I was already thinking about later, about finding a way to see him after all of this died down, about the conversation we’d have about his first NHL game and what it meant that he’d been there wearing my jersey.