Chapter 28
Liam
Three weeks.
It's been three weeks since that morning. Three weeks since Avery hung up on me, and I realized I'd fucked up the best thing that ever happened to me.
Trouble is trying to steal my phone, his tail wagging like this is the best game ever. Princess is curled up in my lap, her head resting on my thigh like she knows I need the comfort.
I should be getting ready. We have the Stanley Cup Final tonight. Game seven against the Denver Kodiaks, at home. It’s the biggest game of my career. The moment every hockey player dreams about.
Instead, I'm scrolling through social media, looking at photos from last night that make me want to throw my phone across the room.
There I am, at some club in Manhattan with a few teammates. Laughing uproariously, beer in hand, looking like I'm having the time of my life.
Nova spotted out before the biggest game of his career!
The comments are overwhelmingly positive. Fans saying they're glad the real Nova is back. That they missed this version of me. That whoever tried to change me failed.
They're talking about Avery. Even if they don't say her name.
The irony is crushing.
I was at that club for exactly one hour, and I agreed to go because my teammates cornered me after practice, saying I'd been a miserable bastard lately and needed to get out.
So I went. Ordered one beer. Smiled for photos.
And I was miserable the entire time.
Every second, I was thinking about Avery. About how she'd see these photos and think I hadn't learned anything. About how I was proving her right. That I'd rather have public approval than her.
But here's the thing I'm finally understanding: the praise means nothing.
These people don't know me. They don't love the real Liam Novak. They love the bad boy. The party animal and the guy who doesn't take anything seriously.
That's not who I am anymore.
I'm not even sure it's who I ever was. Maybe that was always just armor. A way to protect myself from getting hurt after my dad left, after my mom chose her new family, after every person who was supposed to love me unconditionally proved that love always comes with conditions.
Public adoration isn't real. It's fickle and shallow and based on a version of me that doesn't exist.
And whoever I am now, whoever I'm becoming, I don't want to do it without her.
I don't need strangers online telling me I'm fun or exciting or worth paying attention to.
I need her.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cole. You ready to win the Stanley Cup?
Me: I'll be there.
I stand up, dislodging Princess, who whimpers in protest. “Sorry, girl. Gotta go win a championship.”
She tilts her head like she understands.
All the guys in the locker room are dealing with the pressure differently. Some pacing, some silent, some cracking jokes to mask their nerves
This is it. Game seven. Stanley Cup on the line. Winner takes all.
We've fought through four rounds of playoffs to get here. Now we're facing Denver, a team that's equally hungry.
The series has been brutal. Four games to four, every win hard-fought, every loss devastating. And now it comes down to tonight.
Home ice. Our building. Our fans.
Cole stands in the middle of the room, and the noise dies down.
“Gentlemen,” he says. “This is what we've worked for all season. This is the moment that defines us.”
He pauses, looking at each of us in turn.
“But here's the thing. It's just hockey. It's just a game. We've played hundreds of games together. Tonight is no different.” Another pause. “Except it is different. Because tonight, we have a chance to be remembered. Not just as a good team, but as champions.”
The energy in the room intensifies.
“So let's go out there and play our game. Fast, physical, disciplined. Trust your training. And trust that you belong here.” Cole's eyes land on me for just a second. “We all belong here. Now let's go win a fucking Stanley Cup!”
The room erupts in cheers.
I close my eyes and try to focus. Try to push thoughts of Avery aside and get my head in the game.
But all I can think is, what's the point of winning if I can't share it with her?
The game is everything a game seven should be.
It’s intense, physical, teetering on the edge of chaos.
Ethan, our best defenseman, takes a heavy blow to the boards and has to be carried off the ice.
Denver scores first, and the arena goes quiet.
We manage to tie it up in the second period. They get ahead again. We tie it again.
Back and forth, both teams refusing to break.
Third period, tied 3-3, five minutes left.
I'm on the ice for what feels like the hundredth shift of the night, and my legs are burning and my lungs are screaming, but I refuse to feel any of it.
Jake has possession in the neutral zone. He sees me streaking down the left wing and sends a perfect pass. I'm past Detroit’s defenseman, one-on-one with the goalie.
Time slows down.
I can hear the crowd roaring.
I shoot.
The puck sails past the goalie's glove and hits the back of the net.
Goal.
The crowd explodes.
My teammates swarm me, screaming and pounding my helmet. We hold on for the final five minutes. When the buzzer sounds, the arena erupts into celebration.
We won.
We actually fucking won.
The Stanley Cup is ours.
Guys are piling onto the ice, onto each other, onto Ace, who just posted a shutout in the final minutes. The Cup is being brought out, gleaming under the arena lights.
Cole lifts it first, as captain, skating it around the ice while the crowd loses their minds. Then it's passed from player to player, each of us getting our moment with the most coveted trophy in hockey.
When it's my turn, I lift it over my head, and it nearly brings me to my knees.
We did it.
But the joy feels incomplete.
The locker room after is pandemonium. Champagne everywhere, guys singing, music blasting, the Cup in the middle of it all.
I slip away to shower, needing to clear my head before the press conference. The hot water helps, washing away the sweat and the stress of the game, but it doesn't touch the ache in my chest.
I'm toweling off when I grab my phone.
Me: I need to see you. Please. Just five minutes.
I stare at the screen, waiting. The three dots appear, disappear, appear again.
Finally. Avery: Where?
Me: Outside the locker room. Please Avery.
Another long pause.
Avery: Fine. Five minutes.
I throw on clothes faster than I've ever dressed in my life, barely bothering with my hair. When I emerge from the shower area, the locker room is still chaos.
“Nova,” Ryan shouts. “Get over here. We're doing a team photo.”
“Five minutes,” I call back, already heading for the door.
I find Avery in the hallway outside, arms crossed, looking beautiful and furious and everything I've been missing for three weeks.
“Hey,” I say.
“Five minutes, Liam.”
I grab her hand and pull her back into the locker room before she can protest.
“Liam, what are you doing?”
“Everyone out,” I announce to the room.
The chaos stops. Everyone turns to stare at me.
“Out,” I repeat. “Now. I need the room.”
“We're not done getting dressed,” Jake protests, gesturing at his towel.
“Don't care.” I start grabbing jackets and shoes, literally tossing them at people. “Here's your stuff. Out. Go celebrate somewhere else for five minutes.”
“Are you serious right now?” Logan asks, but he's grinning. “We just won the Stanley Cup and you're kicking us out of our own locker room?”
“Yes. Out. All of you.” I grab someone's suit jacket and throw it. “You too, Cole. Captain or not, you're leaving.”
Cole catches the jacket, looking between me and Avery. Understanding dawns on his face. “Five minutes,” he says to the guys. “Let's give Nova his moment.”
There's grumbling, but they file out. Some are still in towels, all of them laughing and making jokes about me being pussy-whipped.
The door closes, and then it's just us.
Avery, me, and the Stanley Cup.
“You kicked your entire team out,” she says, and I can't tell if she's angry or amused.
“I needed to talk to you.” I step closer. “Really talk. Not through text or phone calls or in public.”
A wary expression comes over her features.
“Please.” I run my hand through my damp hair. “I fucked up in Tampa. I know I did. I got scared of losing myself, scared of being someone I wasn't, and I reverted to the only version of me I knew how to be.”
“I know.”
“But I was wrong. That night taught me something.” I'm talking faster now, desperate to get it all out. “The praise, the fans saying they were glad the old Nova was back, it meant nothing. Actually worse than nothing. It felt empty. Fake.”
Her expression is unreadable, so I just keep going.
“You were right about everything. Public adoration isn't real. Those people don't know me. I've been so desperate for that approval my whole life that I kept performing even when it was destroying me.”
Her mask finally cracks a little, her eyes softening. “Oh, Liam.”
“I don't need their validation anymore, Avery. I need yours. I need you.” My voice breaks.
“I love you. Not the publicist who makes me look good, not the woman who helps manage my image. I love you. The real you. The one who challenges me and calls me out and makes me want to be better, not for the cameras, but for myself. For us.”
Tears are streaming down her face now. “You broke my heart.”
“I know. And I'm so fucking sorry.” I close the distance between us, taking her hands in mine.
“I can't promise I won't make mistakes. I can't promise I'll always know who I am or what I'm doing.
But I can promise that I'm done living for other people's approval. I’m done being anyone other than exactly who I am.”
“And who is that?” she asks in a shaky voice.
“I'm still figuring it out. But whoever I am, whoever I'm becoming, I want to do it with you. I want to wake up in the morning and make you breakfast. I want to argue about whether the puppies should sleep in our bed. I want all of it. All of you. Forever.”