Chapter 19 Brad #2
Second period was war. Calgary's center, Michael, had clearly been given one job: destroy Brad Wilder. Every shift, he was on me—hooking, slashing, chirping about my "gimpy knee" and "babysitter girlfriend."
"Heard she's playing house," he hissed during a faceoff. "How's it feel, having another woman in your dead wife's bed?"
The rage that flooded me was nuclear. But instead of dropping gloves, I channeled it.
Won the faceoff clean, streaked past him like he was standing still.
Their defense collapsed on me, exactly what I wanted.
I saucered a pass over two sticks to find my teammate, Yamamoto, alone in the slot. He one-timed it top shelf.
Assist number one.
"That's for Sarah, asshole," I muttered as I skated past Michael.
Third period. Score tied 2-2. My knee was screaming—not damaged, just weeks of rust being scraped off in real time. Four minutes left. Calgary pulled their goalie for an extra attacker, desperate for the win.
The puck squirted free in our zone. I grabbed it, skating backward, drawing two defenders. They thought they had me pinned. Thought the knee would make me hesitant.
They thought wrong.
I spun—a move that would've been impossible six weeks ago—and threaded between them. Open ice. Just me and the empty net, two hundred feet of pristine possibility.
But Morty was scrambling back, almost to the crease. Calgary's defense was gaining. My knee barked with each stride.
Fifty feet out, I wound up for the shot—
And passed instead.
The puck laser-guided to Theo's tape. He buried it with Morty still five feet from salvation. 3-2 Avalanche .
Assist number two.
The Calgary crowd went silent. Our bench erupted.
Ninety seconds left. Calgary desperate, taking chances. Michael tried to bulldoze through our blue line. I stripped the puck clean, probably the prettiest defensive play of my career. Their bench was changing, tired legs heading off, fresh ones coming on—
That gap. That beautiful half-second of chaos.
I exploded through it. Breakaway. Morty set himself, learned from my first goal. He stayed tall, challenging me to make the perfect shot.
So I did.
Top corner, bar down. The sound it made—that perfect ping-swoosh—was better than music.
Hat trick.
Hats rained onto the ice. My teammates mobbed me. But all I could think about was Serena's face on that tiny phone screen.
Sixty-three seconds left. Calgary pulled Morty again, six attackers swarming. They set up in our zone, passing with deadly precision. Their shot hit the post—the sound like a gunshot in the arena. The rebound came to Michael, wide open net—
I dove. Full extension, bad knee be damned, getting my stick on the puck just as he released it. The puck deflected to Derek, who cleared it the length of the ice.
Empty netter. 5-2 final.
"Jesus Christ, Wilder!" Derek pulled me up, checking my knee. "You trying to re-tear everything?"
But I felt invincible. Not because of the goals or the saves or the twenty-thousand people chanting my name.
Because somewhere in Wrightwood, a seven-year-old boy with asthma and a woman who'd saved us both were wearing my number, calling themselves mine.
"Dude, you're actually glowing," Yamamoto laughed in the locker room. "What's gotten into you?"
"He's got a family to impress," Theo supplied, showing them his phone. Another message from Serena, this one just text: Finn's asleep in your jersey. Breathing perfect. That diving save almost gave me a heart attack. Come home to us.
Us.
"That your girl?" Derek asked, seeing the photos Theo was scrolling through—Serena and Finn's blanket fort, their matching jerseys, the pure joy on their faces.
"Yeah," I said, not bothering to correct the 'fake' part anymore. "That's my family."
The word felt perfect in my mouth. Like coming home after days in the wilderness.
Like everything broken finally clicking back into place.
I was in my hotel room, riding the high of victory, when Serena video-called. She was in our bed wearing my jersey, hair messy from sleep.
"Congratulations," she said softly. "Finn's so proud. He made me replay your second goal six times before bed."
"Serena." Her name came out rough. "Thank you. For today, for handling everything, for being..."
"Being what?"
"Everything. You're everything."
Her breath caught. "Brad..."
I wanted to say how much she meant to me, how important she was for both me and Finn.
Instead, I said quietly, "I should let you sleep," though every part of me wanted to keep her on that screen forever.
"Okay," she whispered, but neither of us moved to hang up.
The final morning in Calgary, I woke to a photo from Serena. She and Finn had built an elaborate blanket fort in the living room, complete with fairy lights and a sign: "No Sad Dads Allowed - Only Happy Hockey Heroes."
The caption read: Someone missed you. Two someones.
Coach found me staring at my phone in the locker room, probably looking besotted.
"That your teacher?" he asked.
"Yeah."
"Good. You've been different since she showed up. Better. Don't screw it up."
"Not planning to."
"Sarah would approve." The words landed like a slap and a blessing. "Hell, she probably sent her."
He vanished before I could process that, leaving me alone with the possibility that maybe the universe didn't always take without giving something back.
The flight home felt endless. Theo drove me from the airport, smirking at my obvious impatience.
"Just admit you love her. I t's why you're vibrating at frequencies that could shatter windows."
"Drive faster or I'm rolling out at the next light."
"Roger that, lovesick disaster."
I burst through my front door like SWAT, my knee screaming protests I ignored.
Found them in the fort—their kingdom of pillows and possibility.
Finn was draped across Serena's lap while she read about octopus camouflage in different voices for each tentacle.
They looked up in perfect synchronization, and their twin smiles hit me like lightning finding ground.
"DADDY!" Finn became a missile, trusting me to catch him the way only kids can trust—completely, without backup plans. I caught him, always would, breathing in his perfect cocktail of marker ink and joy, feeling his fierce little arms trying to squeeze me back together.
"Missed you so much, buddy."
But my eyes locked on Serena, still fort-bound, wrapped in my old Avalanche hoodie like she'd been cold without me. The fairy lights turned her into something mythical—this woman who'd walked into our disaster and decided to plant flowers in the wreckage.
"Both of you," I said, the words too small for what I meant. "I missed both of you like breathing."
She smiled then, slow and devastating, and I knew I was done for. Completely, permanently, spectacularly done for.