Chapter 67
sixty-seven
Zach
The ice feels different now I know it’s almost over. It’s sharper somehow. Colder.
Every sound cuts cleaner, the scrape of blades, the crack of sticks, the echo of the puck hitting the boards, like my body is trying to memorize it all before I walk away from it for good.
I settle into the crease, shifting my weight slightly as I track the movement in front of me, my glove hand flexing once, twice. The familiar rhythm sits in my bones, automatic after all these years, but there’s a distance to it now.
Not detachment.
Clarity.
I’m not playing for a future anymore. I’m playing because I can. Because I want to finish this properly.
The puck drops, and the game surges into motion.
Fast.
Aggressive.
Both teams pushing harder than they need to, because even when the standings don’t matter anymore, pride still does. Especially for the younger guys. This is their shot to prove something, to coaches, to management, to themselves.
I track the first rush cleanly, dropping low as the winger cuts in, reading the angle before he even takes the shot. The puck snaps toward the net...blocked.
Rebound kicks out.
Cleared.
“Nice one, old man,” someone mutters as they skate past.
I huff a quiet breath, resetting my stance.
Old man. Yeah. That tracks.
The game builds quickly after that. Back and forth.
Tight. Every save matters, even if it doesn’t.
And I feel it in my body more than I used to.
The pull in my shoulder when I stretch too far across the crease.
The dull ache in my knee when I drop hard to block a low shot.
The way my lungs burn just a little faster than they did five years ago.
There was a time I would’ve reached for something to take the edge off.
Would’ve already had something sitting in my system to dull the ache, to keep me moving without feeling the wear and tear.
Now, It doesn’t even cross my mind.
Not once.
Because I don’t need it. Not when I know what I’m going back to. Not when I know she’s here.
Watching.
Waiting.
That thought settles something in me that no medication ever did.
The next play breaks fast.
Too fast.
One of their forwards cuts hard across the crease just as I shift to track the puck, and I see it coming half a second too late. Impact.
His shoulder slams into me as he loses his edge, sending me backward into the net with a sharp jolt that rattles through my entire body.
The whistle blows immediately, but it doesn’t matter.
Because Jackson’s already on him.
“Don’t you fucking touch him!”
Gloves drop.
Of course they do.
The forward barely has time to react before Jackson drives into him, fists already swinging, the crowd roaring instantly as the tension explodes into something physical.
I push myself up, shaking off the hit, my body protesting for a second before settling again.
“I’m good!” I call out, more for my team than anything else.
Jackson doesn’t stop until the refs drag him off, still snapping, still keyed up like he’s looking for someone else to take it out on.
I catch his eye briefly as they pull him back.
A look passes between us.
You good?
Yeah.
The game resets, but the energy shifts after that. Sharper. More aggressive.
Like everyone’s just been reminded that this is still hockey. Still physical. Still a game where one wrong move can turn into something else entirely.
We push through it, minute by minute. Save by save.
And when the final buzzer sounds, we’ve won it. By one.
It doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t shift the season. Doesn’t suddenly give us a shot at playoffs. But it still hits.
The team surges slightly, that small, instinctive burst of celebration, sticks tapping, voices rising just enough to mark the moment.
I straighten slowly in the crease, pulling my mask off, dragging in a deep breath of cold arena air.
This is it. The last stretch. The last few moments of this version of my life, and I don’t feel loss.
I feel… done.
Ready.
My gaze drifts up to the stands.
To her. She’s there, watching.
And for a second, everything else fades out.
Then I see Jackson, the way his head turns. The way his focus locks onto her. And something in me immediately sharpens.
What are you doing?
Because I know that look. I know that intent.
And Jackson doesn’t do anything halfway.
He skates once around, then without hesitation, he disappears down the tunnel.
I let out a slow breath, dragging a hand down my face.
“Here we go,” I mutter under my breath.
Because if he’s going to make a statement, he’s going to make it loud. The crowd is still buzzing when he reappears. And when he does, he’s not alone.
Lia is in his arms.
The reaction is immediate. A surge of noise that hits like a wave as people realize what they’re seeing, cameras lifting, voices rising, confusion snapping into something louder, sharper, more chaotic.
My chest tightens instantly with concern, because she’s on the ice and it only takes one wrong move, one stray player, one careless turn...
I’m already moving before I fully register it, skating toward them, my focus locked entirely on her.
Jackson sets her down carefully, his hands steady on her as he kisses her.
Right there, center ice, in front of everyone.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head slightly as I close the distance.
Of course he did.
Of course he fucking did.
The crowd is losing it.
The energy in the arena has completely shifted from game to spectacle, cameras flashing from every angle as the moment stretches, amplifies, turns into something bigger than just us.
And I’m not about to let him do this alone.
Because she’s not just his.
I reach them just as he pulls back, my hand settling at her waist as I turn her slightly toward me.
Her eyes flick to mine, wide, a little overwhelmed, but steady underneath it.
“Hey,” I murmur, softer than everything around us. Then I kiss her. Not rushed, not for the crowd, but not hidden either.
A claim.
Clear.
Deliberate.
Let them see it. Let them understand it.
When I pull back, the noise has somehow gotten even louder, if that’s even possible. Movement at the edge of my vision pulls my attention.
Elijah. He is stepping onto the ice now, his gaze locked on her, on us, on everything happening in front of him.
There’s no hesitation in him.
No uncertainty.
Just control.
“I think that’s enough,” he says, his voice calm but carrying just enough edge that it cuts through the moment. “I’m not having her slip on the ice.”
His gaze flicks between us with a pointed look.
It’s not just about balance, he is worried about the baby.
Message received.
Jackson huffs a quiet laugh, still holding onto her.
“Relax,” he says. “I’ve got her.”
He looks down at her then, something softer threading through his expression.
“I’ll always catch you.”
Her breath catches slightly.
And I see it, that moment between them.
Private.
Familiar, before it settles again. Elijah steps in, his hand coming to her back, steady, guiding.
“Come on,” he murmurs.
She lets him take her, but not before her gaze flicks back once, to both of us.
There’s no going back from this.
As I skate away, pulling my mask back on, the noise of the arena still roaring behind me, I feel it settle fully in my chest.
The statement’s been made.
Public.
Clear.
Unmistakable.
And whatever comes next, we’re facing it together.
I push through the tunnel, the sounds of the arena fading behind me as something quieter, steadier takes its place.
I’m done here.
Done with this chapter.
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not wondering what comes next.
I know.
It’s her.