Chapter 20
Peter
The air in the arena tasted different tonight.
Usually, before a game, the air tasted of copper and anxiety. It tasted of bile rising in the back of my throat, of the fear of failure, of my father’s ghost whispering don't screw this up in my ear.
Tonight, the air tasted of ozone. Of electricity. Of possibility.
It was the National Championship Game. The Frozen Four Final. Blackwood vs. Minnesota.
The locker room was a hive of activity, but it wasn't frantic. It was focused. Jax was dancing to a trap beat, but his eyes were sharp. Miller was taping his stick with surgical precision. Even Sarge, who usually paced like a caged tiger, was leaning against the wall, looking oddly serene.
I sat in my stall, fully geared up. My pads were scarred from a season of war. My mask—a new one, painted with a compass rose on the backplate—sat on the bench next to me.
I closed my eyes.
I thought about the Peter Volkov who had walked into this locker room four years ago. The freshman. The terrified kid carrying a bag of secrets and a mountain of debt. The kid who thought control was the only way to survive.
He was a ghost now.
I opened my eyes and looked at the phone in my glove.
Bee: I’m in the Crow’s Nest. Section 104 is vibrating again. I think the Engineering students rigged the bleachers. Also, I’m wearing the lucky sweater. The ugly one. You’re welcome.
I smiled.
Me: The ugly sweater has a 100% win rate. It’s science.
Bee: It’s chaos theory. Go get ‘em, Tsar. I’ll be the one screaming analyzing your butterfly technique.
Me: I love you.
Bee: I know. Now go stop some pucks.
I put the phone away.
"Volkov!" Sarge barked. "Five minutes!"
I stood up. I stretched, feeling the familiar pull of my hamstrings, the tightness in my hips. But there was no pain in my knee. Just strength.
I looked around the room. These guys were my brothers. We had bled together. We had fought together.
"Alright boys!" I shouted, my voice cutting through the music. "Listen up!"
The room went silent.
"We didn't come this far to be second best," I said, looking each of them in the eye. "We didn't freeze our asses off in 5 AM practices to watch someone else lift that trophy. Tonight, we leave nothing in the tank. We play for the guy next to us. We play for the name on the front, not the back."
I paused.
"And if anyone lets a puck past the blue line without bleeding for it," I added with a grin, "you’re answering to the Analyst."
The team erupted in laughter and cheers.
"For Bee!" Jax yelled, pumping his fist.
"For the Analyst!" Miller echoed.
It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
We marched out of the tunnel.
The roar of the crowd hit us like a physical wave. Eighteen thousand people screaming.
I skated to the crease. I scraped the ice, carving my territory.
I looked up. Way up. To the glass box at the top of the arena.
I couldn't see her, but I knew she was there. Watching. Calculating. Loving.
I tapped my stick against the posts. Clack. Clack.
Let’s dance.
The game was a blur of violence and speed.
Minnesota was fast. Faster than us. They swarmed the zone like angry wasps.
First Period: 0-0. I stopped 14 shots.
Second Period: They scored on a deflection. A lucky bounce. 1-0 Minnesota.
The crowd groaned. The energy dipped.
But I didn't panic.
Old Peter would have spiraled. Old Peter would have replayed the goal in his head, analyzing the angle, blaming himself, tightening up until he shattered.
New Peter took a drink of water. He reset. He looked up at the Crow’s Nest.
North doesn't move.
We scored late in the second. Jax, on a breakaway. 1-1.
Third Period.
It was a grind. Bodies were flying. Sticks were breaking.
With two minutes left, Minnesota got a power play. A questionable tripping call on Miller.
The crowd was deafening. DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!
They set up in our zone. They moved the puck beautifully. Crisp, clean passes.
A one-timer from the point.
I saw it late through a screen. I reacted on instinct. I flashed the leather.
Thwack.
Save.
The rebound kicked out. A Minnesota forward pounced on it. The net was open.
I was down. I couldn't get across.
But I didn't give up. I threw my stick. I threw my body. I made myself a wall.
The puck hit the shaft of my stick and deflected wide.
The buzzer sounded.
Overtime.
We went to the locker room. The guys were exhausted. Gasping for air. Soaking wet.
Sarge walked in. He didn't yell.
"One shot," he said. "That’s all it takes. One shot to be legends. Who wants it?"
I looked at Jax. He was battered. He had a cut on his cheek. But his eyes were wild.
"I want it," Jax said.
We went back out.
Overtime in hockey is sudden death. The tension is suffocating. Every mistake is fatal.
Five minutes in. Back and forth.
Then, it happened.
I made a save. A routine glove save. I dropped the puck to my defenseman, Karlsson.
He saw Jax streaking down the wing. A stretch pass. Perfect.
Jax caught it. He crossed the blue line. He deked the defender.
He was in alone.
The stadium held its breath.
Jax faked the shot. The goalie bit. Jax dragged the puck to his backhand and roofed it.
Goal.
The red light flashed. The horn blasted.
For a second, there was silence. Shock.
Then, bedlam.
Gloves flew into the air. Sticks clattered to the ice. The bench emptied.
I skated out of my crease. I ripped my mask off. I screamed at the rafters.
Jax turned and pointed at me. He didn't celebrate with the scorer; he skated straight for me.
He tackled me. Then Miller. Then the whole team.
We were a pile of black and gold humanity at center ice.
We were champions.
The celebration was chaos.
Confetti rained down—black and gold streamers that stuck to our sweaty faces. The trophy was brought out. The Commissioner handed it to me.
It was heavy. Heavier than I expected.
I lifted it over my head. I roared.
The crowd went insane.
I skated a lap. I passed it to Sarge. Then to the seniors.
Finally, I skated to the corner where the glass was low.
The security guards were holding back the crowd, but they let one person through.
Bee.
She was wearing the ugly sweater. It was a monstrosity of yellow and black wool with a lopsided bear on the front. She was crying. Her mascara was running down her cheeks.
She looked beautiful.
She pressed her hands against the glass.
I skated right up to it.
I couldn't hear her through the glass, but I could read her lips.
You did it.
I shook my head. I pointed at her.
We did it.
I looked at the security guard. An older guy named Frank who knew me.
"Frank!" I yelled. "Let her on!"
Frank hesitated. "Liability, Peter! No civilians on the ice!"
"She’s not a civilian!" I shouted. "She’s the analyst! Let her on!"
Frank sighed and opened the gate.
Bee stepped onto the ice. She wobbled immediately in her boots.
I dropped my stick. I dropped my gloves.
I skated to her. I grabbed her before she could fall.
I lifted her up. Her legs wrapped around my waist—padding and all.
"You’re sweating on my sweater!" she laughed, crying at the same time.
"It’s championship sweat," I said. "It increases the value."
I kissed her.
Right there. Center stage. Eighteen thousand people watching. The cameras flashing.
I didn't care.
I kissed her like I had just come home from war. I kissed her like she was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.
When we pulled apart, the Jumbotron showed us. Huge. High definition.
Bee buried her face in my shoulder. "Oh god. My hair is a disaster."
"You look perfect," I whispered.
"Peter!"
I turned.
My dad was standing at the bench. He was wearing his coaches’ jacket. He was smiling. A real, sober smile.
He walked out onto the ice. He walked carefully, but steadily.
He came up to us.
He looked at me. He looked at the trophy sitting on the ice nearby.
"You did good, Pyotr," he said. His voice was thick.
"Thanks, Dad," I said.
Then, he looked at Bee.
He hesitated.
"Belinda," he said.
"Mr. Volkov," she said, still clinging to me.
"Thank you," my dad said. "For... for keeping him North."
Bee smiled. "He has a good compass."
My dad nodded. He patted my shoulder. A heavy, solid pat.
"Go enjoy it," he said. "You earned it."
He walked away to join Sarge.
I looked back at Bee.
"So," I said. "College is over."
"Technically, we have finals next week," she reminded me. "But yes. The hockey part is over."
"New York starts in July," I said. "Camp."
"I know."
"Are you ready?"
"For New York? For the scary big city? For living with a celebrity athlete?"
"Yeah."
"I’m terrified," she admitted. "But the data suggests a high probability of success."
"Does it?"
"Yeah. Variable A: You’re stubborn. Variable B: I’m brilliant. Result: Unstoppable."
I laughed. I spun her around on the ice.
"Unstoppable," I agreed.
Two hours later.
The arena was empty. The lights were dimmed. The confetti was being swept up by the Zamboni crew.
We were the last ones in the locker room.
Me and Bee.
I was finally out of my gear. Showered. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt.
Bee was sitting in my stall, swinging her legs. She was holding the game puck.
"It’s weird," she said, looking around the empty room. "It’s so quiet now."
"It’s always quiet at the end," I said. "That’s the best part."
I sat next to her. The stall was cramped, but we fit. We always fit.
"I’m going to miss this place," she said. "The smell of stale sweat. The flickering lights. The ghost of Miller’s ego."
"We’ll make new memories," I said. "Madison Square Garden smells like stale sweat too. Just more expensive sweat."
She leaned her head on my shoulder.
"Do you remember the first time we met?" she asked.
"In the film room?" I groaned. "How could I forget? The Earl and his... appendage."
"Hey, don't mock the Earl. He brought us together."
"I was such a jerk," I said, shaking my head. "I was so closed off. I looked at you and I saw a glitch. An error."
"And now?"
"Now?" I kissed the top of her head. "Now I see the code. I see the whole system. And it doesn't work without you."
She shifted, looking up at me.
"You know," she said mischievously. "We technically never finished the lesson plan."
"Oh?" I raised an eyebrow. "Which part?"
"The part about... celebration mechanics."
"I don't recall that being on the syllabus."
"It was an addendum," she said. "Added by the professor. Tonight."
She reached into her bag. She pulled out a book. A romance novel.
The Goalie’s Final Save.
"Where did you get that?" I asked, laughing.
"I wrote it," she grinned. "Well, I started it. It’s fanfiction. About us."
"You wrote fanfiction about us?"
"Don't judge. It gets very high ratings on Wattpad."
"Does the goalie win?"
"He wins the game," she said softly. "But more importantly... he gets the girl."
I took the book from her. I tossed it into my gym bag.
"I don't need the book," I said, pulling her into my lap. "I have the source material."
I kissed her.
It was slow. Sweet. A goodbye to the kids we were, and a hello to the adults we were becoming.
"Let’s go home, Bee," I whispered.
"To The Hive?"
"No," I said. "Pack your bags. We’re driving to New York tonight."
"Tonight? It’s 1 AM."
"I can't wait," I said. "I want to wake up in our loft. I want to start the rest of our lives."
"What about graduation?"
"We’ll come back for the ceremony. But tonight... tonight we drive."
She looked at me. She saw the seriousness in my eyes. The need to start fresh. To leave the ghosts of Blackwood behind.
"Okay," she said. "Let’s go."
We walked out of the locker room.
We walked down the long concrete tunnel.
We walked out the back exit, into the cool night air.
My car was waiting.
We got in.
I started the engine. The GPS was already set.
Destination: New York City.
I reached over and took her hand.
"Ready?" I asked.
She squeezed my fingers.
"Ready."
I put the car in gear. We pulled out of the lot.
I looked in the rearview mirror one last time. The arena glowed in the distance, a beacon of memories. Pain. Triumph. Love.
I smiled.
I turned my eyes to the road ahead.
North.