Chapter 20
LIAM
Thursday was supposed to be easy.
Instead we got our asses kicked.
We clawed back. Two goals in the third, and for a few minutes it felt like we might actually pull it off.
Dallas scored an empty-netter with two minutes left.
Final: 4-2.
Series: 3-1.
We'd had a chance to close it out at home, in front of our fans, in front of my son. And we'd blown it.
The locker room after was the quiet kind of bad.
Coach didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to.
"Game 5 is Saturday in Dallas. We're still up 3-1. We still control this series. But we gave them life tonight and we're going to walk into their building and finish what we started. Get some rest."
Nobody spoke.
I sat at my stall and ran through every shift in my head. The missed pass in the first. The turnover in the second. The shot I'd fanned on in the third that should have been a goal, should have been the one that flipped the momentum.
Carter sat down beside me. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Whatever you're doing right now. It wasn't on you."
"I should have been better."
"You had a goal and an assist. We lost as a team. That's it."
I didn't answer. He wasn't wrong. That didn't make it feel better.
Across the locker room, Jonesy had his phone out.
FaceTime. I could hear the tinny sound of kids' voices through the speaker — his daughter asking about the game, his son wanting to know if Daddy had scored, the particular chaos of two small people who didn't care about the score and just wanted their father on the screen.
"I know, buddy. I know. We'll get them next time." Jonesy's voice was patient, warm. The same voice he used on the ice when a rookie was struggling. "Tell me about your day. Did you bring in the permission slip?"
I watched him without meaning to.
A month ago I'd sat in this same locker room watching him do exactly this — FaceTime his kids before a game — and felt that unnamed twist in my chest. The thing I hadn't been able to identify.
I could identify it now.
I'd been watching a father talk to his children and feeling the specific grief of a man who didn't know he had one.
Jonesy caught my eye across the room. Read whatever was on my face. Held up one finger to his kids — *one second* — and looked at me.
"He doing okay?" he asked quietly. "Finn."
"Yeah." My voice came out rough. "He was in the stands tonight. Watched us lose."
"Kids are resilient." He glanced back at his phone screen, where his daughter was doing something elaborate with her hair. "They remember the games you win. And they remember you showed up regardless." He looked back at me. "He knows you showed up?"
"He knows."
"Then you're doing it right."
He turned back to his kids, and I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
Anne and Finn were waiting outside.
Finn's face when he saw me — worried, trying to figure out the right thing to say — was something I wasn't prepared for. Five years old and already reading the room.
"Are you okay, Daddy?"
I picked him up. "Yeah, buddy. I'm okay."
"You didn't win."
"No. But we'll win the next one."
"You promise?"
I looked at Anne over his head. She was watching me carefully.
"I promise," I said.
Anne touched my arm. "You played well."
"Not well enough." I kissed her quickly, hugged Finn tight. "I have to be at the rink early tomorrow. Travel day."
"We'll be here when you get back," she said.
Finn pressed his face into my neck. "Come back soon."
"Sunday," I said. "I'll be back Sunday. And we'll have won."
I left before either of them could see how rattled I actually was.
Friday was video and travel and not enough sleep.
We watched Game 4 on loop — every mistake, every missed assignment, every moment we'd played like a team that thought it was already done. It wasn't comfortable viewing. It wasn't supposed to be.
On the flight to Dallas I texted Anne.
She wrote back that Finn had been asking about me all afternoon. That he'd made a drawing of Game 4 — the Blaze down 3-0, stick figures looking sad on the ice — and declared that Game 5 would be different because Daddy was going to score.
That made something loosen in my chest.
I told her to tell him I loved him. That I'd make him proud.
She said she would. Then: I love you. Go win this thing.
I put my phone away and stared out the window at the dark below and thought about a five-year-old making sad stick figure drawings of my bad game and deciding unilaterally that the next one would be better.
He wasn't wrong about that either.
I woke up early in the Dallas hotel, too wired to sleep.
I went down to the gym and ran until the anxiety burned down to something manageable. Carter found me there, took one look at me, and sat on the treadmill next to mine.
"You look terrible," he said.
"Thanks."
"How long have you been here?"
"A while."
He was quiet for a moment. "You wanted to win it in front of Finn."
I hadn't said that out loud but he'd gotten there anyway. "Yeah."
"You'll win something in front of him. Round 2. Maybe the Cup." He glanced over. "He's not going anywhere, Liam. You're not going anywhere. There are going to be a lot of wins."
"I don't want to lose tonight."
"Then don't." He got off the treadmill. "Come eat something. Game's not for hours."
Game 5.
Dallas arena. Their fans. Their ice. Everything hostile from the moment we stepped off the bus.
This was playoff hockey at its most uncomfortable — every touch of the puck met with noise, every whistle a battle, nothing given.
Dallas had momentum and a building behind them and the particular energy of a team that had looked elimination in the face and blinked and decided they weren't done yet.
We matched them.
First period: nothing. Tight, physical, both goalies sharp.
Second period Jensen scored on a rebound and I thought we had them. Dallas answered three minutes later.
1-1 into the third.
Coach gathered us during a timeout with twelve minutes left. He didn't say much. Just looked around the room and said: "Whoever wants it more. That's the team that advances."
We wanted it more.
With eight minutes on the clock Carter won a face-off in the offensive zone. The puck came to me at the point. I saw the lane, saw the goalie's positioning, saw the opening on the glove side.
I fired.
The goal horn blared into 19,000 booing Dallas fans.
2-1.
I didn't celebrate. Just skated to the bench and watched the clock.
Eight minutes. Just hold it for eight minutes.
Dallas pulled their goalie late, threw everything at us — shots from everywhere, scrambles in front of our net. Our goalie stood tall. Guys blocked shots. We sacrificed bodies.
Final buzzer.
2-1. Series 4-1. We were moving on.
The locker room celebration was relieved more than jubilant. We'd won but we'd made it harder than it needed to be, and everyone knew it. Coach let us have ten minutes then turned off the music.
"Good win. But we showed cracks this week. Round 2 is going to be harder. Four days until Game 1 — rest, treatment, get your heads right."
He was right.
I called Anne from the bus.
She answered immediately. "That was too close. My heart was in my throat the entire third period."
"Mine too. But we got it done."
"You scored the game-winner. Again."
"Someone had to."
She laughed. "How do you feel?"
"Tired. Ready to come home."
"Finn's asleep. But I'll tell him first thing that you won and that you scored."
"Tell him I love him."
"I will." A pause. "I'm proud of you. I know Game 4 got in your head. But you came back and closed it out."
"Team effort."
"You scored the game-winner. Don't do that."
I smiled in the dark of the bus. "Okay. I scored the game-winner."
"Better. Now go celebrate. I'll see you tomorrow."
I was back in St. Louis by late morning.
Went straight to Anne's.
Finn opened the door before I could knock, which I was starting to understand was just how he operated.
"Daddy! You won! Mommy told me you scored!"
I picked him up and spun him once. "We won. We're going to the next round."
"What does that mean?"
"More games. New team. And you can come watch again."
He pumped his fist with complete conviction.
Anne appeared behind him, smiling with her whole face. I kissed her over Finn's head and he made the face he always made.
"Ew."
"You'll change your mind about that someday," I told him.
"I won't."
"We'll see."
Carol was flying back to Chicago the next morning, taking Finn with her.
I knew it was coming. We'd talked about it. Finn had school. He'd been gone a week. It was the right call.
Knowing all of that didn't make the afternoon feel any less like something I was trying to slow down.
We went to lunch. Walked through the park. Found a playground where Finn demonstrated that he was physically fearless in ways that made both Anne and her mom go tense.
Normal family afternoon. The kind I hadn't known I needed until I had it.
At bedtime I read to him one more time. He picked the hockey bear book — of course he did — and I did all the voices and let him correct them, which he did, twice.
When his eyes finally closed he was still holding my hand.
I sat there after he fell asleep, not ready to move. Just watching his face in the low light. The dark hair, the long eyelashes, the complete peace of a five-year-old who'd had a good week and knew he was loved.
I stayed until Anne appeared in the doorway and tipped her head toward the hall.
On the couch, she tucked herself against my side.
"He's going to be okay with going home," she said quietly. "He's five. He'll be back with his friends and his routine and he'll be okay."
"I know."
"It's you I'm worried about."
"I'm fine."
She looked at me.
"I'll be fine," I amended. "Once I get through the first day without him here."
She laced her fingers through mine. "I'll come back for Round 2. My mom can watch him during the week and I'll fly home weekends."
"That's a lot of back and forth."
"It's worth it."
We sat quietly. Outside the window the city was going dark.
"Round 2 starts Thursday," I said. "Probably Colorado."
"Are you ready?"
I thought about Game 4. The locker room after. The gym in Dallas before dawn.
"I will be," I said. "Four days to get right."
She kissed me — soft, unhurried, the kind that had nothing urgent behind it.
"Finn's watching," she said against my mouth. "Even when he's not here. Every game. Don't forget that."
I pulled her closer and didn't answer because I didn't need to.
We stayed like that until the apartment went quiet and the only sounds were the city and each other's breathing.
Tomorrow they'd leave.
But right now they were here.
That was enough.