Chapter 20
Cameron
The Frozen Four.
It was the Holy Grail of college hockey. The summit. The final battle. And this year, it was being held in Boston, in the TD Garden—an NHL arena.
The locker room was a cathedral of noise. Jag was blasting heavy metal from a portable speaker, using his stick as a guitar. The rookies were bouncing off the walls, vibrating with caffeine and terror. Coach Miller was pacing, muttering to himself like a mad scientist.
I sat in my stall. My corner of the world.
I looked down at my pads. They were battered, scuffed with puck marks from a season of war. My stick was taped perfectly. My helmet was polished.
But something was different.
I closed my eyes and pictured myself four months ago. The Cameron Vance of Chapter One. The Wall.
He was terrified. He was a boy holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. He played to escape. He played because he owed money. He played because he thought if he stopped, he would disappear.
That boy was lonely. He sat in this same stall, surrounded by teammates, and felt completely isolated.
I opened my eyes.
I looked across the room. Jag caught my eye and grinned, giving me a thumbs up. I smiled back.
I wasn't lonely anymore. I wasn't afraid.
My mother’s debts were paid. My contract with Montreal was signed (pending the end of the season). I had money in the bank.
But more importantly, I had her.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my phone. One new text.
Mila: Section 108. Row A. Wearing the jersey. And the hoodie. And... well, you know what I’m not wearing. Go get 'em, Wolf.
I laughed. A real, deep laugh that made a few heads turn.
"You good, Cap?" Miller asked, stopping his pacing.
"Never better, Coach," I said.
Miller nodded. "Good. Because North Dakota is big. And they're mean. And they want your head on a stick."
"Let them try," I said.
I stood up. I put on my mask.
"Let's go!" I shouted.
The team roared. We marched out of the locker room.
We walked down the NHL tunnel. The lights were brighter here. The air was colder.
I stepped onto the ice.
The noise hit me—twenty thousand people screaming.
I skated to my crease. I scraped the ice. Clang. Clang.
I looked up. Section 108. Row A.
There she was.
Camila.
She was jumping up and down, waving a sign that said THE WALL HAS FALLEN (FOR ME).
Next to her was Sloane, holding a sign that said VANCE SUCKS (BUT WE LOVE HIM).
And next to them... was my mother.
Evelyn Vance. She looked sober. She looked healthy. She was wearing a Wolves jersey over her coat. She wasn't holding a sign. She was just clapping. Smiling.
I felt a lump in my throat.
I nodded at them. I see you.
Then I turned to face the ice.
I was ready.
The game was a war of attrition.
North Dakota was fast. They hit hard. They played a physical, grinding game designed to wear you down.
The first period ended 0-0.
The second period ended 1-1.
My body was screaming. I had taken shots to the chest, the mask, the knee. But I was in the zone. I was seeing the puck in high definition.
The third period. Five minutes left. Tie game.
The crowd was deafening. Every save I made drew a gasp, then a roar.
A North Dakota forward broke away. A 2-on-1.
My defensemen were caught deep. It was just me.
The forward passed. The puck slid across the ice to the open man on the back door.
I pushed off. I stretched. I threw my body across the crease in a desperation save.
The puck hit the toe of my skate.
It deflected up. It hit the crossbar. PING.
It stayed out.
The crowd exploded.
"VANCE! VANCE! VANCE!"
We cleared the zone. Jag picked up the puck at the red line. He deked past a defender. He crossed the blue line. He wound up for a slap shot.
BOOM.
Top corner. Water bottle pop.
2-1 Wolves.
Two minutes left.
They pulled their goalie. 6-on-5. The siege.
I was a fortress. Nothing got through. I stopped a tip-in. I swallowed a rebound. I froze the puck with three seconds left on the clock.
Faceoff in my zone.
"Three seconds!" Miller screamed. "Win the draw!"
The puck dropped. We won the draw. The defenseman cleared it into the corner.
The buzzer sounded.
Game over.
National Champions.
I threw my stick in the air. I ripped my mask off. I fell to my knees on the ice, arms raised to the rafters.
The team piled on top of me. A mountain of sweaty, screaming men.
"WE DID IT!" Jag yelled in my ear. "WE'RE LEGENDS!"
I laughed. I couldn't breathe, but I laughed.
We stood up. We shook hands. We got the trophy.
I skated around the ice with the massive silver cup over my head. The weight of it was incredible. The weight of history.
I skated toward Section 108.
Camila was at the glass. She was crying. Sloane was crying. Even my mother was wiping her eyes.
I skated right up to the partition.
I put my hand on the glass. Camila put her hand on the other side.
"I love you!" she mouthed.
"Come down here!" I shouted through the glass.
Security tried to stop her, but she flashed a pass—probably one she had charmed out of someone—and ducked under the rope.
She ran onto the ice. She slipped in her boots, flailing.
I caught her.
I scooped her up in my arms, lifting her off the ice. She wrapped her legs around my waist, burying her face in my neck.
"You did it!" she sobbed. "You won!"
"We won," I corrected, spinning her around.
The crowd cheered. The cameras flashed.
I set her down, but kept my arm around her.
"Hey," I said, tilting her chin up.
"Hey," she sniffled, mascara running down her cheeks.
"Remember when you spilled that drink on me?" I asked. "In the bar?"
She laughed. "You looked like you wanted to kill me."
"I thought you were a disaster," I admitted.
"And now?"
"Now," I kissed her nose. "You're my disaster."
She smiled. "And you're my hero. Even if you hate that word."
"I don't hate it anymore," I said. "As long as I'm your hero."
I kissed her. Right there on center ice. In front of twenty thousand people. In front of the cameras. In front of the scouts.
Let them watch. Let them talk.
I didn't care about the narrative anymore. I didn't care about the image.
I just cared about the girl in my arms.
An hour later, the arena was empty.
The celebration had moved to the hotel, but we had escaped.
We were sitting in the stands, high up in the nosebleeds, looking down at the empty ice where the Zamboni was doing its final laps.
I was still in my gear (minus the skates). Camila was leaning against my shoulder, wearing the gold medal I had draped around her neck.
"It's over," she whispered.
"Yeah," I said. "College is over."
"What happens now?" she asked.
"Now," I said, "we pack. We move to Montreal. I go to rookie camp. You find a gallery that appreciates a genius with a 4.0 GPA."
"And a dog," she reminded me.
"And a dog."
She sighed, a happy sound.
"Do you ever think about what would have happened if I hadn't spilled that drink?" she asked.
I thought about it. The alternate timeline. The lonely, angry boy who would have gotten drafted, played his career, and gone home to an empty apartment.
"I would have been successful," I said. "But I wouldn't have been happy."
"You would have been bored," she corrected. "Without my chaos."
"True."
I reached into my pocket. I pulled out a small velvet box.
Camila froze. She sat up straight.
"Cameron?"
"Don't panic," I said quickly. "It's not a ring. Yet."
I opened the box.
Inside was a silver charm. A tiny, detailed hockey puck.
"It's for your bracelet," I said. "The one you wear with all the charms from your travels."
She looked at it. Her eyes filled with tears again.
"You noticed my bracelet?"
"I notice everything about you, Mila. I know you bite your lip when you're thinking. I know you hate the texture of velvet. I know you're afraid of the dark unless I'm holding you."
I took her hand. I placed the charm in her palm.
"This is a reminder," I said. "That no matter where we go, no matter how crazy life gets... you have a home. With me. On the ice. Off the ice. Always."
She threw her arms around my neck.
"I love it," she whispered. "And I love you."
"I love you too."
We sat there for a long time, watching the lights dim in the arena.
The silence wasn't heavy anymore. It was peaceful. It was full.
"Ready to go?" I asked finally.
"Yeah," she said. "Let's go home."
We stood up. We walked down the stairs, hand in hand.
We walked out of the arena and into the cool Boston night. The city was alive. The future was wide open.
We walked toward the parking lot, our breath misting in the air.
And as we walked, I realized something.
The game was over. The score was settled.
But our story?
It was just beginning.