24. Dax #2
The change of entry point catches their PK off-guard. Instead of the predictable cycle, I walk the blue line, pulling their penalty killers out of position. Cole finds the soft spot along the wall, and I feed him the puck with pace.
"Patience!" I hear in my head—Tessa's voice from our sessions about working through structured defenses.
Cole holds it, letting the penalty kill commit to pressuring him, then slides it back to me as I activate down the left side. Their forward has to respect my shooting lane, which opens up the cross-ice seam to Alexei in the high slot.
The pass is perfect—tape to tape, right in Alexei's wheelhouse. Their goalie—Swayman—is already sliding across to cover the angle, but Alexei doesn't shoot. Instead, he one-touches it down to Kevin, who's battling for position in the blue paint.
Kevin gets just enough of the puck to redirect it, but Swayman makes a desperate pad save. The rebound kicks out to Cole, who's crashing from the half-wall.
Top shelf. Bar down. Goal.
1-0, Chicago.
The eruption is seismic. Twenty thousand people on their feet, the building shaking with pure joy. Our celebration is controlled chaos—sticks raised, gloves touched, that perfect balance of excitement and composure that championship teams maintain.
As we skate back to the bench, I catch Tessa's eye in the observation box. She's jumping up and down, clipboard forgotten, looking like a woman watching her husband captain his team to glory on national television.
The second period is when Boston really shows their teeth. They're down 1-0 in Game 7, and desperate teams do desperate things. The hits get harder, the plays get dirtier, and their bench starts chirping about everything from our mothers to our contract negotiations.
"Hey Kingston!" their captain shouts during a line change. "How's it feel knowing you could've been wearing our jersey right now?"
I don't even look in his direction. "Ask me after we eliminate you."
Jamie snorts. "Fucking savage, Cap."
But Boston isn't done. They tie it up seven minutes into the second on a power play goal that deflects off Kevin's skate—the kind of fluky goal that can break your spirit if you let it. As their players celebrate, I skate over to our goalie.
"Shake it off, Murphy," I tell him. "Shit happens. We get the next one."
"My fault, Cap. I should've had that."
"Bullshit. Keep playing your game."
The crowd's energy shifts palpably. This is the moment—1-1 in Game 7, when seasons hang in the balance and heroes are made or forgotten. I catch Tessa's eye in the observation box, and she taps her chest twice. Trust the process. Trust each other.
Boston scores again three minutes later on a breakaway that comes from our own turnover. 2-1, and suddenly the building feels like a fucking funeral.
"Timeout!" Martinez screams, and we gather around the bench like soldiers regrouping after taking casualties.
"Listen to me," Martinez starts, but I step forward.
"Coach, can I have them?"
He nods, stepping back. This is why they pay me to wear the C.
I look around at these guys—my brothers, my chosen family, the men who had our backs during the Harrison crisis.
"You know what the difference is between us and them?" I ask, my voice carrying over the crowd noise. "They're playing not to lose. We're playing for something bigger. We're playing for each other. For the culture we've built. For proving that doing things the right way fucking matters."
"Hell yes," Cole growls.
"Boston thinks they know what we're made of because I turned them down twice. They think we're soft. They think love makes you weak." I grip my stick harder. "Time to show them how wrong they are."
Jamie grins. "Let's go ruin their fucking season, boys."
The third period is when everything we've built gets tested. Boston throws everything at us—cycle after cycle, shot after shot, the kind of relentless pressure that separates championship teams from pretenders. But something's different now. We're not just defending. We're hunting.
With eight minutes left, Kevin strips the puck from their defenseman and starts a rush that ends with Alexei scoring on a wrister that nearly breaks the net. 2-2, and the building explodes like someone just announced free beer and pizza.
"That's what I'm fucking talking about!" I shout, pulling Alexei into a crushing hug. "Beauty!"
But Boston answers back immediately, pressing hard for the go-ahead goal.
Their top line controls the puck for what feels like an eternity, cycling, probing, looking for the tiniest gap in our defense.
With five minutes left, they get a 2-on-1 that should result in a goal, but Murphy makes the save of his life, sprawling across the crease to rob their sniper.
"Holy shit, Murph!” I scream, tapping his pads as we skate past. "Fucking unreal!"
"Not done yet, Cap!"
The clock becomes our enemy—every second ticking by without a goal for either team, every faceoff crucial, every line change strategic. This is playoff hockey distilled to its purest form: skill, will, and the ability to perform when everything matters.
With two minutes left, we get our chance. Boston's tired from sustained pressure, and their defenseman makes the mistake of trying to clear the puck up the middle instead of playing it safe along the boards. Jamie intercepts it and immediately looks for me trailing the play.
Time slows down like it does in the movies. I see the pass coming, see their goalie cheating slightly to his left, see the five-hole opening that exists for maybe half a second. But instead of shooting, I do what champions do—I make the unselfish play.
Cole is crashing the net, completely uncovered because their defense is focused on me. I slide the puck across the crease, Cole taps it in, and twenty thousand people lose their collective minds.
3-2, Chicago. Game 7. Two minutes left.
The celebration is chaos—bodies flying, sticks raised, pure joy exploding across our bench.
But I find myself looking up at the observation box, where Tessa is jumping up and down like she just won the lottery.
Our eyes meet across the arena, and she mouths "I love you" in a way that makes my chest feel like it might burst.
This is what we built. This is what choosing each other looks like under ultimate pressure.
The final two minutes are an eternity of defensive hockey, blocked shots, and the kind of team unity that can't be taught or bought. When the buzzer finally sounds, the dam breaks completely.
"We fucking did it!" Jamie screams, crashing into me with enough force to knock me over. "Game 7, baby!"
The celebration is everything—teammates dogpiling, coaches hugging, fans weeping with joy. But all I can think about is getting to Tessa, holding her, sharing this moment with the woman who made it all possible.
The post-game interviews are a blur of questions about vindication and validation, about choosing love over ambition, about proving the doubters wrong. But the question that gets me is from a young female reporter who asks: "What do you want people to remember about this story?"
I think about Tessa, probably watching from somewhere in the building, waiting for me to finish so we can celebrate properly.
"I want them to remember that excellence and love aren't mutually exclusive," I say.
"That having someone who believes in you doesn't make you weaker—it makes you capable of things you never imagined.
And I want every young athlete watching to know that choosing happiness over expectation isn't giving up. It's growing up."
The locker room celebration is exactly what you'd expect—champagne, music, grown men acting like teenagers who just got their first kiss. Jamie corners me near my stall, already three beers deep and grinning like an idiot.
"You know what gave you away?" he shouts over the music. "You started caring about your appearance! The extra-long showers, the cologne, the fact that you stopped leaving dirty dishes everywhere!"
"Fuck off, Torres," I laugh, but Cole joins in.
"And the way you'd check your phone every five minutes during practice! We all knew something was up when Dax Kingston became a romantic."
The entire team erupts in laughter, and I realize this—this moment, this joy, this family—is what we were really fighting for all along.
Two hours later, I'm finally alone with Tessa in our hotel room—we'd booked it to escape the post-game chaos and celebrate privately—still riding the high of victory and vindication.
She's changed out of her professional attire into the dress she wore to our victory celebration—a simple black number that hugs her curves and makes me want to worship every inch of her body.
But before I touch her, I grab the battered binder sitting on the desk. She tilts her head when I hand it over, brows knitting.
“What’s this?”
“My playbook,” I say, voice rough. “The real one.”
She opens it, expecting diagrams. Instead, she finds my handwriting spilling across the pages.
The night in Vegas when she rolled her eyes at me in the chapel, but still slipped the ring on my finger.
The way she calmed me down before that brutal press conference by just brushing her hand against mine.
The way her laugh carried across the kitchen the night we burned the pasta and ended up eating cereal instead.
Her fingers trace the words like she’s afraid they’ll disappear. Every page is another play, another memory I never want to lose. On the last page I’ve written:
Today we showed them what love looks like. Tomorrow, and every day after, I’ll keep proving it.
Her breath hitches, eyes shimmering. “Dax…”
I cup her face in my hands, leaning close. “I don’t need another contract or another Cup. You’re it, Tessa. You’re the win I’ll spend my life defending.”