Chapter 43
Chapter Forty-Three
CHARLOTTE
By the time I step into the arena, the world already feels louder.
Three days have disappeared since the ultrasound, and everything in me has been humming ever since—half nerves, half hope.
Now it’s Game 1 of the Final. The New York Forges landed last night, and the building’s already shifted into its own rhythm. There’s extra security at the doors, camera cables snaking through the hallways, and media risers jammed with cameras, cords, and restless crew.
The staff set out stacks of rally towels at every section entrance. In the training room, the playlist’s low, steady, something to keep the guys loose while the equipment staff checks skate edges.
I fall into my routine: hydration board, inventory, last-minute prep for the lineup sheet. A few familiar faces pass through with nods or half-smiles, that silent language of playoff focus.
It feels good to have something steady under my hands, to focus on small, measurable things.
Because tonight, the noise, the cameras, and even the quiet truth I’m carrying feel just a little bigger than usual.
A few of the trainers give me quick nods as I move through the hall. One of the equipment guys grins, lifting his coffee in salute. “Big night,” he says, tone friendly but clipped.
“Biggest one yet,” I answer, smiling back.
No one pries or lingers. Just simple, respectful acknowledgment—the kind that says they’ve heard about Declan and me but aren’t making it weird. Everyone’s got their own pre-game ritual to guard, and I’m grateful for that quiet professionalism.
Dan stops long enough to hand me an updated treatment list. “Patel and I will cover Tremayne’s side if anything flares up,” he says, casual but reassuring.
“Thanks, Dan,” I reply, matching his calm.
He nods once and keeps walking. The smell of sharpened steel and coffee trails behind him, grounding me in the normal rhythm of game prep.
It feels good. Ordinary, even. The world might be changing around us, but here, the work still feels like home.
By the time warmups start, the steady roar of the crowd filters down the tunnel. I step into the hallway for a minute of quiet, rolling out my shoulders and stretching the tension from my neck.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s Kristy.
I smile and answer. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be working?”
Her voice comes through over the noise of her own clinic’s background music. “I’m wrapping up now. Thought I’d check in. How are you holding up?”
I glance down the hall instinctively, lowering my voice. “You mean pregnant and pretending everything’s fine? Totally crushing it.”
Kristy laughs softly. “You sound lighter, though. That’s a good sign.”
“I am,” I admit, leaning against the wall. “He’s happy. Really happy. We decided to wait until after the Final to tell people. Sophie first, then our families.”
“Smart,” she says. “Let him chase the Cup without a million questions in his ear. But, Char… he’s going to be an amazing dad again. You know that, right?”
My throat tightens, but in the best way. “I do. It’s still surreal, though. Two heartbeats, Kris. Two.”
“Double trouble,” she says, teasing gently. “Better start stretching your patience muscles now.”
I laugh, quiet but real. “Already doing that at work.”
“Speaking of,” she adds, “I’m proud of you. Balancing everything the way you do—it’s not easy.”
Her words land warm, grounding. “Thanks,” I say softly. “I’ll call you after the game, win or lose.”
“Oh, please,” Kristy says. “You and your captain are winning tonight. I can feel it.”
When the call ends, I stay there for a second, hand over my stomach, listening to the echo of the crowd through the concrete walls. The hum of adrenaline mixes with something steadier. Peace, maybe, or the quiet certainty that everything is exactly where it should be.
Game 1 is starting. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not just part of the team. I’m part of something bigger.
The players line up in the tunnel, jerseys gleaming under the fluorescents, helmets tucked under their arms. The arena shakes with noise—music, fans, the steady chant of Let’s go, Foxes! rolling through the concourse like thunder.
I spot Declan at the front of the line, shoulders set, eyes locked ahead. It’s all business now: captain mode, controlled and calm. But when he adjusts his gloves, his gaze flicks sideways, just long enough to find mine.
It’s half a second, maybe less, but it’s enough. A silent we’ve got this.
My chest tightens with something that feels equal parts pride and awe.
He worked months to get back here—to trust that leg, to lead again. And now he’s exactly where he belongs.
As he skates out for warmups, the crowd erupts. I catch sight of Sophie in the lower rows, standing beside Erin and Maya. Declan skates past the bench and turns his head toward her for a heartbeat, then he’s locked back in.
I glance up at the scoreboard: Game 1: Ice Foxes vs. New York Forges.
Everything he’s fought for, everything we’ve built, comes down to this series.
I press a hand over my stomach, hidden behind my tablet.
I take my spot in the bench area, shoulder to shoulder with the training staff. From here, I can see everything.
Most nights, I’d be in the medical room watching the feed, waiting for the call if someone went down. But tonight’s different. Dan wants extra hands close to the bench area, and I want to see this one unfold with my own eyes.
The puck drops, and the building explodes.
The first few minutes are chaos in motion—blades carving lines into the ice, bodies colliding along the boards, every shift sharper than the last. The Foxes test the Forges’ goalie early; three shots in two minutes, all swallowed by his glove.
The bench hums with restless energy, that silent rhythm of players leaning, watching, waiting for the next change.
Declan’s line goes out early. He wins the opening faceoff clean, that low, practiced power back in his stride. Every shift he takes looks stronger—controlled, confident, like the months of rehab finally paid off.
“Looks good out there,” Dan mutters beside me.
I nod, eyes still on Declan. “Better than good.”
A few minutes later, the Forges press back hard. Their captain threads a pass through the slot, but Declan drops to one knee to block it, the puck thudding off his shin pad before he clears it down ice. The crowd roars—part relief, part pride. I can see the determination in every stride.
Between whistles, the crowd never really quiets. You can feel the noise in your ribs—the steady heartbeat of an arena that believes.
The second period tilts in our favor. The Foxes’ forecheck clicks into place. Torres forces a turnover along the half wall, and Dalton finds the loose puck and rifles a shot off the pads. The rebound bounces right back to Torres, who buries it top shelf.
The crowd erupts, towels spinning like confetti under the lights. The sound rolls through the bench like thunder, and I can’t stop smiling.
Midway through the period, the Forges answer back on a power play—clean shot, glove side, through traffic—but it only makes the next shift burn hotter.
Declan rallies the line, a quick tap of sticks and a low, focused “reset.” They push back immediately, pinning the Forges in their zone until the period ends.
But it’s the third period that seals it. Declan picks off a pass at center ice, cuts wide to open space, and drives the zone. He threads a perfect cross-crease feed to Tyler, who buries the one-timer and blows the roof off the place.
The final buzzer sounds. 3–1.
Game 1 is ours.
The crowd doesn’t just cheer. They roar. The bench erupts: sticks clattering, gloves flying, the kind of noise that makes the walls shake.
Declan’s mobbed at center ice, helmet off, grinning as teammates pull him into the celebration. I catch his eyes just once through the chaos. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts a glove to his heart and taps twice.
A subtle we did it.
Around me, the medical team starts packing up, but I stay a beat longer, letting the sound wash over me—the crowd, the music, the echo of everything it took to get here.
When I finally turn toward the tunnel, I press a hand against my stomach again, whispering through the noise, “They’re going to have one hell of a story someday.”
I can feel it. Momentum, not just for him or the team, but for us.
By the time the last fans clear out, the arena smells like ice, sweat, and celebration. Trainers are double-checking gear bags, and the roar has faded to a steady buzz in my ears.
Declan’s still doing media when I duck into the corridor, exhaustion and pride tangling somewhere behind my ribs. My phone buzzes.
Declan: Home soon. If you’re still coming over, don’t wait up if you’re wiped.
I smile, typing back: Wouldn’t dream of it. Proud of you, Captain.
He sends one more: Couldn’t have done any of this without you, Sunshine.
The screen blurs for a second before I tuck it away, hand drifting instinctively to my stomach.
“We did it,” I whisper to no one, to everyone.
Outside, snow flurries dust the parking lot under the arena lights, soft and bright. I tilt my face toward the cold, draw in a breath that feels brand-new.
And somewhere between the win, the team, and the two tiny heartbeats waiting quietly for their turn, hope feels unstoppable.