Chapter 29
Reese
I’m weirdly aware of my breathing as Elena and I make our way through the crowded concourse of the United Center on our way to the Wives and Girlfriend Suite. The sea of red and black jerseys parts momentarily as we pass, a few heads turning to look at me with flickers of recognition.
I missed this, but it’s weird. Elena's hand squeezes mine as she senses my hesitation. "You belong here," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the roaring crowd. "Remember that."
I nod yes, but that’s not what I’m feeling.
At the VIP entrance, the security guard—Dave, who's worked here for fifteen years —breaks into a wide smile when he spots me.
"Ms. Thompson! Welcome back," he says, waving us through without checking our passes. "We missed you." He leans in, lowering his voice and winks at me. "Glad he came to his senses."
"Thanks, Dave," I manage, my cheeks warming. The news about Logan and me must have traveled through the entire arena. I wonder what version they heard.
The elevator ride up to the boxes is painfully slow. Elena chatters about something her father said to her yesterday, but my mind bounces between memories of my last time here and anxiety about facing the WAGs after my conspicuous absence.
"They don't bite," Elena says as the doors slide open and we head to the suite. "Besides, half of them have been texting me asking if you’d be here tonight."
"Really?" This genuinely surprises me.
"Really. Now come on, game's about to start."
I scan the faces, searching for any sign of hostility or judgment, but find none. Still, I hesitate just inside the doorway.
"Reese!"
Natasha Kovalchuk's distinctive accent cuts through the noise. Before I can prepare myself, she's wrapping me in a tight hug that smells like her perfume and hint of cigarette smoke.
"We missed you," she says, her voice warm against my ear.
Then she pulls back, holding me at arm's length to study my face.
"Logan missed you," she adds, her direct gaze leaving no room for disagreement.
"Everyone could see. When you left—" She makes a diving motion with her hand.
"Down, down, down. Now you're back." She smiles. "He's back too."
"Thanks, Tasha. I’m glad to be back." I say.
"Come, sit with us." She links her arm through mine, guiding me toward a section of seats near the front of the suite. Elena follows, taking the seat on my other side.
The arena below us pulses with Game 7 energy which is unlike anything I've ever witnessed.
Every seat is filled, a solid wall of red and black with scattered pockets of Colorado's burgundy and blue.
Playoff banners hang from the rafters, and the sound system blasts music so loud I feel it as much as I hear it.
Fans pound on the glass during warmups, their faces painted, their voices will be gone tomorrow from screaming.
"This is insane," I whisper to Elena, who nods in agreement.
"Conference Finals, Game 7. Winner plays for the Stanley Cup. Doesn't get bigger than this."
The players are on the ice for warmups, circling and stretching, taking shots, their movements a dance of controlled preparation. I find Logan immediately.
Something's different. I lean forward in my seat, watching him more intently. He’s moving gracefully again. He's not just going through the motions; there's purpose in every stride, confidence in the way he handles the puck.
"See?" Natasha says, noticing my focus. "Different man."
She's right. This is the Logan I fell in love with—strong, centered, sure of himself and his place in the world.
He skates toward our end, corrals a loose puck, and sends it toward the net with an easy flick of his wrist. As he turns to circle back, his eyes lift to the stands, scanning with purpose until they find our section. Find me.
He stops, just for a moment. Gives a deliberate point and a nod that might be invisible to anyone not looking for it. But I am, and I see it, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
The WAGs continue their chatter—discussing their man’s silly superstitious routines, sharing gossip, making predictions.
The warmups end, the ice is cleared, and the anticipation in the building ratchets up another notch.
The lights dim dramatically, spotlights swirling across the ice as the announcer's voice booms through the speakers, introducing the starting lineups with theatrical emphasis.
When Logan's name is called, the crowd erupts in a roar that shakes the floor.
Both teams line up on their blue lines for the national anthem, the singer's voice somehow amplifying the electric atmosphere. Logan stands straight and still, his focus absolute, his hand over his heart.
The anthem ends and the crowd roars its approval. The starters take their positions for the opening face-off.
The puck drops. Game 7 starts with a bone-crushing hit along the boards, a desperate diving play to clear the defensive zone, a near-miss that has everyone jumping to their feet.
I'm back where I belong, watching the man I love do what he was born to do.
I gasp for about the 10th time as another Colorado shot clangs off the post, the sound reverberating through the arena.
The first period has been twenty minutes of hockey like I’ve never seen—brilliant saves, bone-crushing hits, and heart-stopping chances for both teams. I feel like I’ve barely breathed, my body tensing with every rush up ice, every loose puck in front of our net. Elena grabs my hand and squeezes.
"Breathe," she reminds me as the buzzer signals the end of the first period. The scoreboard shows zeros for both teams.
"That was..." I exhale, realizing I've been perched on the edge of my seat for the entire period.
"Intense," Natasha supplies, leaning over. "Great hockey. Fast." She makes a swooping gesture with her hand. "Like playoff hockey should be."
When the teams return for the second period, the tension in the building has somehow intensified. Each play feels weighted with consequence. Logan is staying on the ice longer than usual, his presence a steadying force for the younger players.
It happens six minutes into the period—a harmless-looking shot from the point that deflects off someone's leg or stick, changing direction just enough to fool our goalie. The red light flashes. Colorado celebrates. The United Center crowd falls into stunned silence.
1-0.
"No, no, no," I whisper. Across the ice, Logan slams his stick against the boards in frustration, his body language telling the story his face, hidden by his helmet, cannot.
"Not good," mutters Benny's wife from a few seats away. "First goal is huge tonight."
Elena puts her arm around me and gives me a reassuring squeeze. "Plenty of time," she says.
The Blades push back hard after the goal. Logan is everywhere—blocking shots, making hits, driving the play forward with sheer will. His intensity is contagious, and you can see it in the team.
Eight minutes later, it pays off. Benny gets the puck at the top of the circle, a sliver of space opening up as the defense shifts. His wrist shot is a blur, finding the top corner before the Colorado goalie can react.
The building erupts. I'm on my feet without realizing it, screaming along with the entire building as Benny is mobbed by his teammates. Our box dissolves into hugs and high-fives. I find myself wrapped in Natasha's arms, then Elena's, laughing and shouting wordlessly.
1-1.
The rest of the second period is a blur of chances both ways, neither team able to break through again.
By the time the buzzer sounds, my voice is hoarse and my hands hurt from clenching them without stopping.
Twenty minutes left in regulation. Twenty minutes to decide who goes to the Stanley Cup Finals.
"I need a drink," Elena announces during intermission, disappearing toward the bar at the back of the suite. She returns with two hard seltzers and hands me one. It’s cold and it feels good on my throat.
The third period begins with the same frantic energy, both teams sensing that the next goal might be decisive. Five minutes in, disaster strikes again. A turnover at our blue line, a quick pass to their sniper, and the puck is behind our goalie before anyone can react.
2-1 Colorado.
The crowd groans. I grab Elena's arm, my fingers digging in so hard she winces. "Sorry," I whisper, but I don't let go.
"Mac's got this," she says, using Logan's hockey nickname in a way she never does off the ice. "Look at him."
She's right. Logan has gathered the team at the bench, speaking intensely, as he points and directs. His teammates respond with nods and fist bumps.
The minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. The crowd holds its breath with every Colorado possession. If they score again, this might be over. Each Blades chance carries enormous weight. With twelve minutes left, we get a power play—Colorado's defenseman sent to the box for a blatant trip.
"Come on, come on," I mutter, hands pressed together like I'm praying. Maybe I am.
The power play unit cycles the puck with precision, searching for an opening. Logan quarterbacks from the point, directing traffic, drawing defenders toward him before sliding a perfect pass to Jonesy at the side of the net. He lifts the puck over the goalie’s pad and in.
2-2.
I'm screaming again, everyone is, the sound washing over me in waves. Natasha hugs me so hard I nearly lose my balance, both of us jumping like teenagers at a concert. The relief is overwhelming—we're back in it, still fighting.
The final ten minutes are a showcase of desperation from both teams—bodies sacrificed to block shots, every inch of ice contested, no space given without a battle.
With just over two minutes left, Logan makes a play—anticipating a cross-ice pass at center ice, stepping into the lane to intercept it, creating a turnover that catches Colorado flat-footed.