Chapter 20
Toby
The Stanley Cup Playoffs were different than college. The ice was harder. The hits were heavier. The noise was louder.
But the feeling in my gut? That was the same.
I sat in my stall in the locker room. I taped my stick. Heel to toe. Black tape. Precise overlaps.
Around me, the room was a hive of nervous energy. Veterans were shouting. Rookies were staring at the floor, bouncing their legs.
I was calm.
I looked at the piece of tape on the knob of my stick. Written in silver sharpie, in small, messy handwriting, were two letters: TN.
True North.
I smiled.
Six months ago, I would have been in this locker room trying to control everything. I would have been analyzing every variable, terrified that one mistake would cost me my future, my freedom, my identity. I was a machine running on fear and premium unleaded resentment.
Now?
I was just a hockey player. And a damn good one.
I closed my eyes and visualized the game. Not the stats. Not the scouts. Just the flow. The ice. The puck.
"Kincaid!"
I opened my eyes. The Captain—a veteran defenseman named Weber who had taken me under his wing—was standing over me.
"You ready, kid?"
"Born ready," I said, standing up.
"Good. Because they're going to come for you. They know you're the engine."
"Let them come," I said. "I'm not alone."
I wasn't talking about the linemates.
I pulled out my phone. One text.
Georgia: Section 104. Wearing the lucky jersey. If you win, I'll paint you like one of my French girls. If you lose, I'll still paint you, but I'll make your nose look big.
I laughed. A genuine, relaxed laugh that made a few heads turn.
Me: Deal. See you on the other side.
I put the phone away. I put on my helmet. I snapped the chin strap.
We walked down the tunnel. The roar of the crowd grew louder, a physical wave of pressure.
I stepped onto the ice. The lights hit me. The cold air filled my lungs.
I skated a lap. I looked up at Section 104.
I couldn't see her individual face in the sea of red jerseys. But I knew she was there. I knew she was watching.
And that was all the fuel I needed.
Georgia
I was nauseous.
Not "butterflies" nauseous. "I might actually throw up my overpriced arena pretzel" nauseous.
Game 7. Overtime.
The score was tied 2-2.
The air in the Bell Centre was so thin you could suffocate. Every time the puck crossed the blue line, twenty thousand people gasped in unison.
I was clutching the railing in front of me so hard my knuckles were white. I was wearing Toby's away jersey—the number 19 Canadiens sweater he had given me after his first game. It smelled like him. Like laundry detergent and success.
Next to me, Lola was screaming obscenities at a referee in French. She had flown in for the game, abandoning her sculpture thesis for "moral support," which mostly involved drinking beer and threatening opposing players.
"He's blind!" Lola yelled. "That was offsides! Get glasses, zebra!"
"Lola, breathe," I whispered. "My heart can't take this."
"Look at him," Lola pointed. "He's in the zone. Look at T."
I looked.
Toby was on the ice. He was moving differently than everyone else. While the other players looked frantic, choppy, desperate... Toby looked fluid. He was gliding. He was anticipating the play two seconds before it happened.
He looked free.
I thought back to the night I met him. The dark penthouse. The bruises. The cold, dead eyes of a boy who thought he was a transaction.
I looked at him now. He was shouting instructions to his winger. He was tapping his stick on the ice, calling for the pass. He was alive.
My father had called me yesterday. He had seen the gallery press release. He wanted to "reconnect."
I had blocked the number.
I didn't need his approval. I didn't need his money. I had a studio in Old Port overlooking the cobblestone streets. I had a gallery show booked for the fall. I had a dog—yes, we got the dog, a golden retriever puppy named Puck who was currently destroying my favorite boots back at the apartment.
And I had Toby.
The play developed quickly.
Boston turned the puck over in the neutral zone.
Toby intercepted it.
He crossed the blue line. One defender to beat.
He dropped his shoulder, faking a drive to the outside. The defender bit. Toby pulled the puck back through his legs—a move so filthy it should have been illegal—and cut to the middle.
He was alone in the slot.
"Shoot!" the entire arena screamed.
He didn't shoot. He waited. He froze the goalie.
Time seemed to slow down.
I saw the flex of his stick. I saw the focus in his eyes through the visor.
Snap.
The puck flew. Top shelf. Water bottle.
Goal.
The red light spun. The horn blasted—a deafening, earth-shaking sound.
"YES!" I screamed, jumping up. "YES! YES! YES!"
Lola tackled me. Beer flew everywhere. Strangers were hugging me.
On the ice, Toby was mobbed by his teammates. They piled on top of him against the glass.
But then, he broke free.
He skated away from the pile. He took off his glove. He pointed to the rafters.
Then he pointed directly at Section 104.
He tapped his heart.
I burst into tears. Right there in the middle of the screaming mob.
He won.
We won.
Toby
The locker room was champagne and sweat.
"Conference Champions!" Jager yelled—he had flown in to watch, wearing a jersey that was half Montreal, half Chicago (an abomination)—and sprayed a bottle of Veuve Clicquot over my head.
I wiped the stinging liquid from my eyes, grinning like an idiot.
"Speech! Speech!" the boys chanted.
I stood on the bench. I looked around the room. These guys were my family. They had welcomed me, the rookie with the scandal, without judgment. They had protected me on the ice.
"Job's not done!" I shouted. "Four more wins! We want the Cup!"
The room erupted again.
I hopped down. I grabbed my phone.
One text from my father.
William Kincaid: Acceptable performance. The stock price rose 2% on the win.
I deleted it.
One text from Georgia.
Georgia: I'm outside the family lounge. Hurry up. Puck misses you. And so do I.
I didn't shower. I grabbed a towel, wiped off the worst of the sweat and champagne, pulled on a fresh t-shirt and my suit pants, and ran out.
The family lounge was crowded with wives, girlfriends, and kids.
I scanned the room.
I saw her.
She was standing by the food table, stealing a cookie. She was wearing my jersey. Her hair was messy from the celebration. Her makeup was smudged.
She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
"Georgia!"
She turned. Her face lit up.
She ran to me. I met her halfway.
I lifted her off her feet, spinning her around. She wrapped her legs around my waist, heedless of the people watching.
"You did it!" she yelled in my ear. "You were amazing!"
"We did it," I corrected, burying my face in her neck. She smelled like arena popcorn and vanilla. "I couldn't have done it without the lucky jersey."
"It's never getting washed," she promised. "It's marinating in victory."
I put her down, but I didn't let go. I kept my arms around her waist, pulling her flush against me.
"Let's get out of here," I whispered.
"Don't you have media? Team dinner?"
"I have a suspension to serve if I miss another gala," I joked. "But right now? I have ten minutes. And I want to spend them with you."
We slipped out a side door, into the quiet hallway of the arena bowels.
It was empty. Just concrete walls and the hum of the Zamboni in the distance.
I leaned against the wall and pulled her between my legs.
"Hey," I said softly.
"Hey," she smiled, reaching up to fix my hair. "You're sticky."
"Champagne shower."
"Fancy."
I looked at her. Really looked at her.
"Do you remember the first time we were in a hallway like this?" I asked.
"The Vault," she nodded. "You were grumpy. You threatened to brainwash me."
"And you were bratty. You told me to control you."
"Best decision I ever made."
I laughed. I reached into my pocket.
"I have something for you."
Her eyes widened. "Toby... if it's a key to a storage unit, I'm going to hit you."
"It's not a key."
I pulled out a small black box.
Georgia stopped breathing. "Toby..."
"It's not a ring," I said quickly. "Well, it is a ring. But not that ring. Not yet."
I opened the box.
Inside was a simple, silver band. Engraved on the outside were coordinates.
"What are these?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"The coordinates of the Boathouse," I said. "Where you saved me."
She looked up at me, tears spilling over.
"I promised you I wouldn't let you fall," I said. "And I promised we'd be a team. This is... a promise ring? Is that too high school?"
"It's perfect," she whispered. "It's absolutely perfect."
I took the ring out and slid it onto her right hand. It fit perfectly.
"I love you, Georgia," I said. "More than hockey. More than money. More than winning."
"I love you too, Toby," she said. "More than art. More than Paris. More than breathing."
She kissed me.
It wasn't a frantic kiss. It wasn't a desperate kiss.
It was a kiss of certainty. A kiss of arrival.
We had survived the storm. We had broken the ice.
And now, we were just two people, standing in a concrete hallway, ready to start the rest of our lives.
"Come on," I said, pulling back. "Let's go home. Puck needs to be walked. And I need to wash this champagne off before I stick to the sheets."
"Can I help?" she smirked.
"I insist."
We walked down the hallway, hand in hand, leaving the noise of the arena behind us.
The game was over.
But our season was just beginning.