Chapter 27 #2
But the Knights were still behind. Every goal we didn’t score tightened the pit in my stomach.
I could feel it for Dawson too. I caught glimpses of him on the jumbotron, shoulders tight, eyes darting for opportunities, jaw set.
He didn’t glance toward the stands once, not even when Boone nudged past him, shouting some quick, reckless encouragement.
Dawson’s focus was total, and I could almost see the weight of guilt pressing on him, the memory of Henry disappearing flashing through his mind with every split-second decision.
By the middle of the period, sweat had plastered Dawson’s hair to his forehead, but his movements never wavered.
I could see the frustration flicker in his eyes when a pass didn’t land, when the puck bounced away, and it made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t quite place.
I wanted to shout, to make him look at me, to let him know that Henry was safe and I still believed in him.
But I stayed quiet, letting the boys’ confidence and controlled chaos play out below.
When the whistle blew for another stoppage, Henry nearly bounced out of my arms, pointing toward the locker room entrance.
“That’s where Dawson’s gonna score, I know it!
” he cried. I laughed, setting him down carefully, and I caught Dawson’s eyes just long enough to nod encouragement.
He flinched slightly at the gesture, then nodded back, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
We stayed near the aisle so we could talk during the next intermission.
I kept one hand on Henry’s shoulder, rubbing soothing circles as he mimicked cheering motions, and the other hand stayed close to Dawson, brushing the back of his arm.
The game continued in bursts of high intensity.
I caught bits of commentary through the speakers: “Golden Knights pushing hard, but Avalanche defense is relentless… Dawson controlling the play with impressive precision…” The praise cut a small line of warmth through my chest.
He was doing it. He was holding it together.
By the final break before the last period, Henry had settled enough to chatter happily, recounting every play he could see. I let him lean against me as he mimicked a slapshot. The boy was hyped, fully immersed, and I could see his confidence and joy bubble out, even after the earlier scare.
I slipped toward Dawson, careful to navigate the throng of fans and players’ families spilling into the stands for the brief intermission.
He looked up as I reached him, shoulders tense, fingers curling against the railing.
Exhaustion ran through his body like a current, and I could feel the strain in his gaze.
I cupped his cheek lightly, thumb brushing along the line of his jaw, and he stiffened, but didn’t pull away.
For the first time all day, I saw a crack in the armor, and I let myself meet him there, eyes soft.
“You’re a good captain,” I whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
“And an even better dad. You’ve got this.
” My hand lingered against his skin, grounding both of us.
“I believe in you.” I pressed a bittersweet kiss to his cheek, fleeting, careful, but enough to send a spark of warmth through both of us.
He opened his mouth to say something, hesitation on his tongue, but the arena’s horn blared, signaling the players to return to the ice. Dawson exhaled sharply, nodded, and stepped back. “Go,” he muttered, voice tight but steady, letting me know he was letting it go for now.
I took a half-step back as he disappeared down the aisle, slipping between teammates and officials, and my heart clenched.
I watched him until he was swallowed by the rink entrance, then turned to Henry, who was bouncing in place, still full of energy.
His wide-eyed grin was infectious, but I felt the weight of every worry from earlier settle back onto my chest.
We returned to our vantage point, holding hands through the crowd.
The final period loomed ahead, high stakes and tension vibrating through the arena.
Every pass, every slapshot, every shift Dawson took made my stomach lurch with anticipation.
He was fighting through his own exhaustion, through the pressure, through the guilt of earlier mistakes, and I couldn’t look away.
Henry’s small hand curled around mine, pulling me into his excitement.
I smiled, despite the tight knot in my chest. I cheered when Boone cut past defenders, and jumped when Gage blocked a shot that could have ended the game.
But my eyes were always searching for Dawson, watching the strain on his shoulders, the focus in his eyes, the way he carried the weight of the Knights on his back.
This was it. Every second counted. And as the puck skated back and forth, as the crowd roared and the scoreboard flickered numbers that wouldn’t bend in our favor just yet, I felt that strange mixture of fear and hope.
The weight of the earlier panic, of almost losing Henry, and the tension between us all, pressed against my ribs like a physical thing.
The final period was coming, and I gripped Henry’s hand tighter, ready to ride out the rest of the storm.
Henry was practically vibrating next to me, fists pumping every time the Knights made a move, and I couldn’t stop my chest from tightening every time Dawson got the puck.
I kept one hand pressed to my mouth, heart in my throat, while the other stayed looped through Henry’s small fingers.
His excitement was infectious, but it only made the stakes feel higher.
Every shift, every collision, and every slide across the ice hit me in waves.
Boone was darting past defenders, fast as a streak, and Gage was cutting through the middle like he owned the space, skimming past sticks that would have knocked anyone else off balance.
Dawson, though, carried the weight of all of them, eyes scanning constantly, adjusting, orchestrating without ever slowing.
Every time the puck neared the net, my stomach jumped into my throat.
A sharp hit rattled the boards, and my heart lurched.
Gage went down hard, a grimace twisting his face, having taken a hit meant for Boone.
I barely noticed Boone glide past to recover the puck before Henry was shouting, “Gage! Are you okay? Get up!” He was waving his little arms like he could physically lift him off the ice.
Gage scrambled to his feet, grimacing but nodding, brushing ice and sweat from his uniform.
I exhaled slowly, rubbing Henry’s back while my gaze kept flicking to Dawson.
He’d slid past the collision without hesitation, his eyes hard and focused, but the small flash of concern when he glanced toward Gage cut straight through me.
Even in the middle of chaos, even when he couldn’t speak, he cared.
The crowd roared as the Avalanche pressed, forcing the Knights back.
Every failed pass made me flinch. Every deflected shot made my stomach twist. Henry kept shouting encouragement, mimicking slapshots with his tiny fists, completely immersed in the energy of the game.
I smiled through the tension, but my hand pressed tighter to my mouth, nails digging into my palm.
I couldn’t stop watching Dawson, couldn’t stop tracking Boone and Gage.
Every move mattered, every second counted.
Minutes dragged by like hours. Boone stole the puck and barreled down the side, Gage cutting off a defender to set him up, and Dawson in the center, ready to receive.
My pulse raced so fast I thought I could feel it in my ears.
The Avalanche goalie squared up just as Boone’s shot came, and I gasped, squeezing Henry’s hand so hard I could feel him flinch. The puck clanged off the post.
Henry groaned and leaned against me, burying his face in my shoulder.
I whispered, “It’s okay. They’ve got this,” though I wasn’t sure I believed it myself.
Dawson skated back into position, scanning, calculating.
He grabbed the puck off a rebound, cutting past two defenders. The arena held its breath with me.
And then, as if time slowed, Dawson lined up his shot.
The goalie dove, sticks clashing, skates scraping, the world narrowing down to the path of that tiny black puck.
It hit the net with a satisfying, final snap.
My chest erupted, and I leapt up instinctively, pulling Henry with me.
He shrieked, waving his arms, and I laughed through tears, clapping over his head.
Dawson had scored. The Stanley Cup was within reach.
The arena erupted around us. Fans leapt to their feet, screaming, cheering, hugging strangers.
I watched Dawson skate toward Boone and Gage, who were both breathless, wide-eyed, and grinning despite the exhaustion.
Gage’s wrist had a small scrape from the earlier hit, but he laughed anyway, and Boone slung an arm around his brother as they skated together toward the net for the final faceoff.
Henry bounced in place, high-fiving every hand offered him, shouting every player’s name like he’d known them his entire life.
I wrapped an arm around him, letting him ride the wave of victory, but my eyes never left Dawson.
He skated past, chest heaving, face flushed with exertion and something else I couldn’t name.
Relief? Triumph? Maybe a little disbelief.
He glanced up toward the stands, catching my gaze for the briefest beat.
There it was again, that tiny fraction of connection, fragile but real.
The final buzzer sounded, and the arena shook with collective euphoria.
Fans spilled into each other, screaming, cheering, hugging.
Dawson dropped to his knees briefly, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding his breath for hours.
Boone hoisted Gage into a celebratory hug, and I watched Dawson skate to them, arms slung over his brothers’ shoulders, a rare, unguarded smile on his face.
Henry yelped, pointing to the ice. “They did it! They won! My dads did it!” I laughed, squeezing him tight, letting the thrill of the moment wash over me. My chest was raw with adrenaline, relief, pride, and an ache for the boy who had almost been lost earlier.
Boone and Gage spotted us in the stands, waving, grinning like maniacs.
Dawson glanced up too, nodding slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing for the first time all day.
I returned the nod, my heart still racing.
We hadn’t fixed everything, not by a long shot, but in that instant, seeing him like that, the team together, Henry safe and ecstatic, the moment carried weight enough.
Henry practically dragged me down the aisle toward the players, jabbering about the game, his little fists pumping every time he mentioned a block, a shot, a goal.
Boone took his hand first, spinning him around, while Gage crouched to let him punch the air with both hands.
Dawson stayed back, watching, chest rising and falling, and when our eyes met, I offered a small, bittersweet smile.
I couldn’t fix everything, not yet, but we were here, all of us, and he was alive and part of it.
As the arena began to clear, fans still buzzing and clapping, I stayed close to Henry, letting him bask in the chaos of celebration.
Dawson finally joined us, shoulders still tense, but calmer, letting Boone and Gage wrestle with the cup and each other.
For a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, some of the ice between us had melted.
But the game was done. The Knights had won. The Stanley Cup was theirs. And yet, even in victory, my stomach tightened, thinking about everything still left unsaid, every touch, every glance, every unspoken word that lingered between Dawson and me.
I held Henry a little tighter as the team celebrated, my mind caught between relief and longing, the roar of the arena washing over me, and a quiet, uneasy realization that the hardest battles weren’t on the ice at all.