Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Jerry
The locker room before a National Championship game has a specific smell. It’s a cocktail of nerves, adrenaline, Deep Heat, and the metallic tang of sharpened steel. For three years, that smell had triggered a Pavlovian response in me: shut down, lock in, become the machine.
Tonight, however, the air smelled different. Beneath the sweat and the tape adhesive, I could smell... hope.
I sat in my stall—the corner spot reserved for the Captain—taping the blade of my stick. Heel to toe. Black tape. Smooth. No ridges. The ritual was the same, but the hands performing it were different.
I looked down at my hands. The black band tattoo on my ring finger was still there, a permanent mark of my past resolve to never be owned.
But right next to it, glinting under the harsh fluorescent lights, was the cheap silver band Heather had bought me at a kiosk in the mall yesterday.
She insisted I needed an engagement ring too.
“Equality,” she’d said, sliding it onto my finger.
“Plus, it tells the puck bunnies to back off.”
I smiled.
"You're smiling again," Tank said, dropping his massive goalie pads onto the bench next to me. "Stop it. It's unsettling. You look like a golden retriever who just learned how to skate."
"I'm focusing," I corrected, smoothing the tape.
"You're daydreaming about your garden in Seattle," Tank accused. He buckled his chest protector. "Listen, Cap. Tonight is big. But don't forget where you are. We need The Judge out there for sixty minutes. You can be the Loverboy after the buzzer."
I looked up at Tank. My best friend. The guy who had kept my secrets and driven my getaway car.
"The Judge is retired," I said calmly. "Tonight, you get Jerry."
Tank paused. He studied me, his blue eyes serious behind the mask he was holding.
"Is Jerry good enough to beat Minnesota?" he asked.
I stood up. I pulled on my jersey—the black and silver sweater with the 'C' on the chest. It felt lighter than it used to. It didn't feel like armor anymore; it felt like a uniform.
"Jerry is going to skate circles around Minnesota," I said. "Because Jerry has something The Judge never did."
"What's that?"
"A reason to come home."
The locker room door opened. Coach Miller walked in. The room went silent.
Miller looked at us. He looked at me. There was no shouting today. No speeches about legacy or blood.
"Gentlemen," Miller said. "You know the stakes. You know the opponent. You've done the work." He looked at me. "Vane. Lead them out."
I grabbed my helmet. I walked to the door.
But before I stepped into the tunnel, I paused.
In the shadows of the hallway, just out of sight of the cameras, she was waiting.
Heather.
She was wearing my away jersey—the white one this time—over a hoodie. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but wisps of gold framed her face. She looked tired—finals were next week, and we had spent the last three nights packing boxes for the move—but her eyes were bright.
She stepped forward as the team filed past, giving me a moment of privacy in the chaos.
"You look scary," she whispered, reaching up to adjust the collar of my jersey.
"Good scary?"
"Sexy scary," she corrected. She flattened her palm against the 'C'. "Are you ready?"
I looked at her. I thought back to the first time I saw her, sliding across the ice in her gray coveralls, terrified and defiant. I thought about the boy I was then—isolated, frozen, convinced that love was a variable to be eliminated.
That boy was gone. He had melted.
"I'm ready," I said.
"Then go win me a trophy," she said. "I need something shiny to put on the mantle in Seattle. The Fiddle Leaf Fig is going to look lonely without some hardware."
I laughed. I leaned down and kissed her. It wasn't a quick peck. It was deep, grounding, and full of promises.
"I love you," I murmured against her lips.
"I love you too," she said. "Now go. Don't miss a spot."
I grinned. The callback to our first meeting—the first thing I ever said to her—landed perfectly.
"I never miss," I promised.
I turned and walked down the tunnel. The roar of the crowd grew louder with every step. eighteen thousand people screaming.
But for the first time in my life, the noise didn't drown me out. I could hear my own heartbeat. And it was beating for her.
Heather
The National Championship game was less of a sporting event and more of a collective cardiac arrest.
I was sitting in the front row, right behind the glass. Tank had gotten me the tickets. “Goalie privileges,” he’d winked. “You need to be close enough to bang on the glass if he starts acting like a robot.”
The arena was a sea of noise. The opposing team, the Minnesota Gophers, were huge. They played a heavy, physical game that made me wince every time bodies collided.
But the Sabers were faster. And Jerry...
Jerry was flying.
I had watched him play a dozen times now. I had seen him play angry. I had seen him play hurt. I had seen him play efficiently.
Tonight, he was playing with joy.
It was terrifying to witness. He moved with a fluidity that made the other players look like they were skating in mud. He anticipated passes before they happened. He danced around checks that should have buried him.
Midway through the second period, the score was tied 2-2.
Minnesota was pressing. They had the Sabers pinned in their own zone. Tank was standing on his head, making save after miraculous save, but the defense was tired.
The puck squirted loose to the corner.
Jerry was there.
He battled two Minnesota defenders. He was outnumbered, outsized. But he dug his edges in. He used his lower body strength—the strength I knew intimately—to hold them off.
He kicked the puck free to his stick. He spun.
He didn't clear it. He saw a lane.
He took off.
"Go!" I screamed, jumping to my feet. "Run, Jerry!"
He carried the puck end-to-end. He crossed the blue line. A defenseman stepped up to hit him.
Jerry didn't brace for impact. He didn't drop his shoulder.
He stopped.
A hard, violent stop that sent a spray of snow into the defenseman’s face. The guy skated right past him, hitting nothing but air.
Jerry stepped around him. He was alone with the goalie.
The crowd held its breath.
Jerry deked left. The goalie bit. Jerry pulled the puck to his backhand and lifted it.
Top shelf. Water bottle pop.
The horn blared. The red light flashed.
3-2 Sabers.
Jerry didn't glide past the bench with a stony face this time. He didn't just fist-bump Tank.
He dropped to one knee and pumped his fist, screaming at the rafters. His teammates mobbed him. He was laughing. I could see it through his cage. He was hugging Johnson, he was shoving Tank, he was alive.
He looked up at the Jumbotron, saw the replay, and then his head snapped to the glass.
To me.
He pointed. One gloved finger, aimed right at my heart.
I pressed my hand against the cold glass. He skated by, tapping his glove against the spot where my hand was.
I see you.
Tears pricked my eyes. I wasn't just the girlfriend in the stands anymore. I wasn't the secret. I was the destination.
The rest of the game was a blur of anxiety. Minnesota pushed back. They pulled their goalie in the final minute. It was 6-on-5. Chaos.
The puck bounced around the Sabers' crease. Tank was swimming. Bodies were everywhere.
Ten seconds left.
Minnesota took a shot from the point. It was a rocket.
Jerry stepped in front of it.
He didn't flinch. He went down to one knee to block the shot. The puck hit him square in the chest—right where his ribs had been broken weeks ago.
I gasped.
The puck dropped dead to the ice.
Jerry scrambled, swept the puck out of the zone, and sent it gliding down the length of the rink.
Three. Two. One.
The buzzer sounded.
Pandemonium.
Gloves flew into the air. Sticks clattered to the ice. The bench emptied. A pile of black and silver bodies formed on top of Tank.
We won.
I stood there, crying, screaming, hugging the stranger next to me who smelled like beer and nachos.
They did it. He did it.
I watched the pile unstick itself. I watched Jerry emerge from the bottom. He wasn't limping. He shook his hair out, his face flushed, a wide, delirious grin splitting his face.
He shook hands with the Minnesota team—gracious, the perfect Captain.
Then, the ceremony.
The suits came out on the red carpet. The trophy—the massive silver cup—was brought out.
Jerry skated over to accept it. He shook the commissioner's hand.
He lifted the cup.
The crowd roared. The flashbulbs popped. It was the image that would be on the front page of every paper tomorrow. Jerry Vane, Champion.
He skated a lap with it, holding it high. Then he handed it to Tank.
And then, he did something that wasn't in the script.
He skated toward the gate where the families were waiting to come onto the ice.
He pointed at the security guard.
"Open it!" I heard him shout over the noise.
The guard hesitated, then opened the gate.
Jerry didn't wait for me to walk out on the carpet. He skated to the rubber matting. He grabbed my hand and pulled me onto the ice.
"Jerry!" I shrieked, my boots slipping immediately. "I'm going to fall!"
"I've got you," he laughed.
He wrapped his arm around my waist, holding me up. He dragged me out to center ice, surrounded by the falling confetti and the cheering crowd.
"We did it," he yelled over the noise.
"You did it!" I yelled back.
"No," he said, looking down at me. His eyes were shining. "We. I blocked that shot because I knew you were watching. I scored that goal because I knew you were waiting."
He dropped his stick. He grabbed my face with his gloved hands.
And he kissed me.
Right there on the center ice logo. In front of the cameras. In front of the scouts. In front of his father, if he was watching (which I hoped he was, miserable in his penthouse).
He kissed me like he was claiming me all over again. It was wet and messy and tasted of sweat and victory.
The crowd went wild. I heard a wolf-whistle that was definitely Tank.
Jerry pulled back, breathless.
"Marry me," he said.
"I already said yes!" I laughed.
"Marry me sooner," he said. "Tomorrow. In Vegas. On the way to Seattle."
"Jerry..."
"I'm serious," he said. "I don't want to wait. I want to start the life. I want the garden. I want the ring that isn't from a pawn shop."
I looked at him. At the joy radiating off him.
"Okay," I whispered. "Vegas. But no Elvis."
"Deal," he grinned.
He scooped me up in his arms, spinning me around on the ice. The world blurred into streaks of color and light.
I held on tight.
I wasn't falling anymore. I was flying.
One Month Later: Graduation Day
The Sterling Falls University quad was lush and green, a stark contrast to the frozen wasteland it had been when I first arrived. The sun was shining. The air smelled of freshly cut grass and potential.
I adjusted my mortarboard, checking my reflection in the window of the Science Center.
"You look smart," a voice said behind me.
I turned.
Jerry was leaning against a tree. He wasn't wearing a cap and gown—he had technically withdrawn to sign with the Krakens, though he promised to finish his degree online ("Efficiency," he had argued).
He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt that fit him perfectly. He looked relaxed. Happy.
"I am smart," I said, smoothing my gown. "I'm graduating Summa Cum Laude. Despite the fact that my fiancé is a high-maintenance professional athlete who requires constant emotional support."
"Husband," he corrected, flashing the gold band on his finger.
We had done it. A drive-through chapel in Vegas. Tank was the witness. It was tacky, quick, and perfect.
"Husband," I tested the word. It still gave me butterflies.
"Are you ready to walk?" he asked.
"I think so," I said. I looked around the campus. "It feels weird. Leaving. This place was... a lot."
"It was hell," Jerry said bluntly. "But it gave me you. so I guess it breaks even."
"Sentimental," I teased.
"Pragmatic," he countered.
The procession music started. Pomp and Circumstance.
"That's my cue," I said.
Jerry pushed off the tree. He walked over and kissed my forehead.
"I'll be in the front row," he said. "Next to your mom. Try not to trip on the stage."
"I never trip," I lied.
"I'll catch you if you do," he promised.
I watched him walk away toward the seating area. He walked differently now. The heavy, prowling gait of "The Judge" was gone. He walked with a lightness, a bounce in his step.
I joined the line of graduates. I found my place next to a girl from my Art History class.
"Is that Jerry Vane?" she whispered, eyeing him in the crowd. "God, he's hot. I heard he turned down his inheritance."
"He did," I said proudly.
"Why?"
"Because he found something better," I said.
We marched. We sat. We listened to boring speeches about "the future" and "unlimited potential."
When they called my name—Heather Bloom-Vane (I had insisted on the hyphen)—I walked across the stage.
I didn't trip.
I shook the Dean's hand. He looked at me with a mixture of respect and relief that I was finally leaving.
I took my diploma.
I looked out at the crowd.
Jerry was standing. He was clapping. He was beaming. Next to him, my mom was wiping her eyes. Next to her, Tank was blowing an air horn he had definitely smuggled in illegally.
I raised my diploma in the air.
Jerry raised a fist in return.
We did it.
The Departure
The U-Haul was packed. My mom’s sedan was packed. Jerry’s new truck—a sensible purchase for the Pacific Northwest—was packed.
We stood in the parking lot of The Spire one last time.
"Do you want to go up?" I asked him. "Say goodbye to the view?"
Jerry looked up at the glass tower. He squinted against the sun.
"No," he said. "The view was lonely."
He turned to me. He opened the truck door.
"Ready, Mrs. Vane?"
"Ready, Mr. Vane."
I climbed into the passenger seat. The cab smelled like new leather and his cedarwood cologne.
He climbed in the driver's side. He started the engine.
"GPS is set for Seattle," he said. "Twenty-two hours."
"We have snacks," I said, patting the bag on my lap. "And an audiobook. Pride and Prejudice."
Jerry groaned. "Again?"
"It's a classic. And Mr. Darcy reminds me of someone."
"Is he rich and grumpy?"
"Extremely."
"Does he get the girl?"
"Eventually," I smiled. "After he stops being an idiot."
Jerry laughed. He reached over and took my hand, interlacing our fingers on the center console.
"Sounds like a good story," he said.
He put the truck in gear.
We pulled out of the garage. We hit the main road.
I watched the campus fade in the rearview mirror. I watched the arena shrink until it was just a silver beetle in the distance.
I looked forward.
The road was open. The mountains were waiting.
We were heavy, yes. We carried baggage and scars and a history that was complicated.
But as Jerry accelerated, merging onto the highway that would take us west, I realized something.
We weren't just driving away from the past. We were driving toward a garden.
And we were going to make it grow.
Together.