Chapter 40
forty
MAINE
The locker room hums with something more sacred than pre-game energy.
It’s the quiet electricity that comes with knowing you’re about to step onto the ice for the last time as a college player. For the last time with your team. My chest tightens with a feeling I can’t quite name—something between grief and gratitude, loss and love.
I finish wrapping tape around my stick. Black tape, overlapping perfectly, the way I’ve done it a thousand times before. But this is the last time I’ll do it in this locker room, wearing this jersey, with these guys who’ve become more than teammates.
They’ve become family.
Across the room, Mike sits perfectly still in front of his locker.
He’s not moving, not talking, just staring at his nameplate like he’s trying to memorize it.
After years of carrying this team on his shoulders—a journey that included a detour into his own depression after an injury and the fight to come back again—he’s ready.
I think about all the times he’s picked me up. The night he dragged me off a barstool when I was too drunk to stand. The morning he found me sleeping in the rink because I couldn’t afford heat in my apartment. The day he told me, with brutal honesty, exactly how badly I’d fucked up with Maya.
Thank you, I want to say. For all of it.
But the words stick in my throat.
Because Mike and me… we’re the last of our core group, which included Linc, now in the NHL, and Dec, now at a gallery in Europe. The guys who’ve been here since the beginning, who remember when we couldn’t win a game to save our lives.
Who’ve grown up together, on this ice and off it, in ways that go beyond hockey.
And now it’s time to pass the torch.
Rook’s at his stall, methodically stretching. No jokes, no running commentary about which puck bunny he’s planning to celebrate with later. His usual chaotic energy has been honed to a razor’s edge, all that manic humor compressed into pure competitive focus.
Because he knows he’s next in line to be captain when Mike and I are gone.
And the rest of them?
Cooper’s taping his ankles with surgical precision, because of course he is.
Schmidt’s on a video call with his girlfriend, whipped as always.
Martinez is bouncing on his toes, all that quiet energy ready to explode.
Even Kellerman, our perpetually terrified sophomore, looks ready to run through a wall.
And in about ten minutes, we’re going to play our last game together.
The weight of it should be crushing, but instead, I feel... light.
Because the past few weeks with Maya have been a masterclass in learning how to be honest—with her, with myself, with everyone. We’ve had conversations that felt like emotional root canals, digging out all the rot and infection of our lies, and then rebuilt.
And now she’s out there in the stands, wearing my jersey. The thought of her in it, the way it hangs past her hips, the way she had to roll up the sleeves three times... Christ, I’m getting hard in my cup thinking about it, which is really not ideal timing.
Focus, Hamilton.
But how can I focus when everything in my life has fallen into place?
Chloe’s about to start the experimental treatment.
My parents kept the house.
And I’m not totally broke… just a little broke.
All because of her.
“All right, boys, bring it in,” Coach Pearson’s voice cuts through the pre-game haze. And, as we gather around him, he looks at each of us, his gaze lingering on the seniors. “I’m not going to give you some big speech, because you know what’s at stake. National championship.”
The guys shout in affirmation.
“For some of you, this is your first shot at it, but for others…” His eyes find mine, then Mike’s, then Rook’s. “This is your last shot. Your last time wearing that jersey. Your last time skating out of that tunnel as Pine Barren Devils before you go on to bigger and better things.”
My throat closes up.
Beside me, Mike’s jaw tightens.
“Four years,” Coach continues, specifically addressing us seniors now. “Four years you’ve given to this program. You’ve bled for it. You’ve sacrificed for it. You came in as boys, and you’re leaving as men. As champions, if you play the way I know you can.”
He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is rougher.
“It’s been an honor to coach you. All of you.
But especially you two.” He nods at us. “Hamilton, Altman—you’ve been the heart of this team since I got here.
You’ve shown these younger guys what it means to be a Devil. Now go show the rest of the country.”
“YES, COACH!” we roar in unison, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls of the locker room.
“Devils on three,” Mike says, his captain voice steady despite the emotion I can see in his eyes. “One, two, three?—“
“DEVILS!”
The tunnel to the ice is dark, familiar, terrifying, and beloved all at once. I’ve walked it hundreds of times, but never like this. Never knowing it’s the last time. The roar of the crowd builds with each step, a wall of sound that grows from a distant rumble to a deafening tsunami.
When we burst onto the ice, the arena erupts. Thousands of people on their feet, screaming themselves hoarse. The ice girls look great, the a player and I’m a player.
And our time in this beautiful frozen hell is almost over.
The clock keeps ticking. 2:00. 1:59. Each second another grain of sand falling through the hourglass of my college career.
I search for Maya in the stands, my personal North Star.
My parents are crying, of course. Chloe’s clapping her small, weak hands, but her eyes are blazing with pride. Maya’s just standing there, fists clenched, her entire body a tightly coiled spring of hope.
I love you, I mouth at her. Win or lose.
She nods, her eyes full of tears she won’t let fall. I love you, too.
Then Mike is there, clapping me on the shoulder. “One more, Hamilton. For all the marbles.”
“Let’s win this fucking thing,” I say.
We skate back out, the weight of a hundred thousand dreams on our shoulders.
The crowd is a single, roaring beast, its heart beating in time with the drums pounding over the loudspeakers.
When the puck drops, the explosion of noise is physical.
And I know,win or lose, we’ll leave it all out on this ice, like we’ve done a thousand times before.
Because we’re Devils. And this is our last dance.
Sixty minutes later, we’re in hell.
Tied game. One minute left. Everything we’ve worked for in the balance.
The crowd is deafening now—a living thing, pressing in from all sides, vibrating through the boards and into my skates.
I can feel it in my chest, rattling my ribs.
My legs are screaming, lactic acid burning through my quads.
My lungs can’t get enough oxygen through my mouth guard. Sweat stings my eyes.
This is everything I’ve ever wanted. This moment, right here.
The opposing team—Princeton—they’re good.
Really fucking good.
They’ve got three guys who are locks to be drafted to the NHL, including their center, who’s built like a brick shithouse. We’ve been trading chances all game, both goalies at the top of their game. Rook’s made saves that shouldn’t be physically possible. Their goalie’s done the same.
But someone has to break. Someone always breaks.
They win the faceoff in our zone and immediately set up their power play formation, because even though it’s even strength, they’re that confident. The puck moves with surgical precision: D to D, down low, back to the point. They’re looking for the perfect shot.
Their defenseman winds up, and time slows down.
I see it all: the flex of his stick, the puck leaving the blade like a black bullet, and Rook sliding across the crease.
There’s traffic in front—Cooper and their center tangled up, Schmidt trying to clear the screen.
The puck blazes through it all, heading for the top corner where the post meets the crossbar.
The spot every goalie has nightmares about.
No.
But Rook—beautiful, insane, brilliant Rook—flashes his glove up at an impossible angle. The puck disappears into white leather just as the horn sounds for a TV timeout with thirty seconds left, and everyone in the arena absolutely loses their collective fucking mind.
“HOLY FUCK!” I scream, though no one can hear me over the crowd.
Rook casually flips the puck to the ref like he didn’t just save our entire season, but I see his hand shaking slightly as he pushes his mask up to grab water. That save took everything he had, and he clearly knows he was both lucky and won’t be able to do it again.
We huddle at the bench. Coach is trying to diagram something on his whiteboard, but honestly, we all know what the play is. Win the draw, control the puck, and look for one good chance. Don’t force it, but don’t be passive either. The kind of advice that sounds simple until you’re out there.
“Hey.” Mike grabs my jersey, pulls me close enough that I can hear him. “Remember BC? Down three with five minutes left?”
I remember. Our first game together. His sophomore year. My junior.
We lost 7–2.
“We’ve come a long way since then,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes that makes my throat tight again. “It’s been an honor, brother.”
“Mike—“
“Thirty seconds to make it count,” he continues. “One shift. Our shift. We started this together. We finish it together.”
Coach sends us over the boards for the offensive-zone faceoff.
Our best offensive unit, the one that’s carried us all season.
The ref holds the puck between Schmidt and the Princeton center.
The guy’s got four inches and thirty pounds on Schmidt, but Erik’s got that quiet intensity that makes him dangerous.
Everything narrows to this circle of ice.
This moment.
The puck drops.
Schmidt wins it clean, sweeping it back to me.
The second the puck hits my stick, two Princeton players converge.
They know my shot, because everyone knows my shot.
It’s what got me noticed by NHL scouts, what makes me dangerous from anywhere in the offensive zone.
Their game plan is obvious: take away my shooting lanes, force me to make a pass.
Three weeks ago, I would have tried to split them. Would have forced something spectacular because that’s what Maine Hamilton does. He makes the highlight reel play. He’s the star. The prancing pony. The guy who wants to carry everyone on his back.
The Maine Show.
But I’m not that guy anymore.
As the defenders commit to me, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. They’ve doubled Mike, too, but Leo Cooper—quiet, steady, dependable Cooper—is ghosting toward the back post. Nobody’s paying attention to him, all eyes on me and Mike, waiting for the moment where I try to seal it.
The go-big-or-go-home moment, a shot or a pass to Mike to seal the deal.
But not today.
I sell the shot with everything I have. Weight transfer, stick flex, even a little grunt of effort.
The goalie goes down, sliding desperately to his left before he can realize he’s guarding air, and both defenders try to block a shot that never comes.
And at the last second, I flip a no-look backhand pass through the seam.
The puck lands on Cooper’s tape like it was meant to be there all along.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Then I hear the most beautiful sound in hockey: the goal siren on the buzzer.
For a heartbeat, there’s stillness.
That perfect, crystalline moment where everyone’s brain catches up.
Then the place goes absolutely nuclear.
I’m on my knees at the blue line, stick raised to the rafters, screaming something primal and wordless. Then Cooper slams into me, followed by Schmidt, and suddenly I’m at the bottom of a pile of bodies, someone’s elbow in my kidney, and Rook’s goalie pad across my face.
And I’ve never been happier in my entire life.
When we finally untangle, Mike’s there. We crash together in a hug.
He’s crying. I’m crying. We’re both laughing and crying and holding each other.
“You passed,” he says into my ear, barely audible over the chaos. “You beautiful bastard, you passed.”
“I needed some help to finish it,” I say back, though it comes out more like a sob.
The next few minutes are a blur. Trophy presentation, photos, and through it all, I keep looking for her.
My parents make it down to the ice, my mom sobbing into my jersey, my dad’s hand heavy and proud on my shoulder.
Chloe hugs me so tight I worry she’ll hurt herself, but she’s laughing for the first time in months.
But I need Maya.
And then I see her and skate over to her.
“Hi,” she says, like she didn’t just watch me win a national championship.
“Hi,” I say back, like I’m not covered in sweat.
“That pass,” she says, stepping closer. “Unexpected…”
“It was the right play,” I finish.
“No,” she says, and now she’s right in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume cutting through the hockey stink. “That was you. The real you. The guy who takes care of everyone else first, but who now knows when he needs help.”
My throat closes up. “We did it,” I manage.
“You did it,” she corrects, but I’m already shaking my head.
“No. We. None of this happens without you. The fundraiser, Chloe, us working through our shit—Maya, you saved me, in every way a person can be saved.”
She rises on her toes, pulling my face down to hers. “You saved yourself. I just… helped with the logistics.”
When I kiss her, it tastes like victory and the future and home all mixed together. Someone wolf-whistles—probably Rook—but I don’t care. I lift her off her feet, spinning her in a circle like we’re in some cheesy movie, her laughter bright and perfect against my mouth.
“I love you,” I tell her when I set her down. “I love you so fucking much, and just wait for all the Gucci you can buy when I get drafted…”
“I know,” she says, grinning. Then, softer, “I love you too. Even though you smell like a hockey bag fucked a brewery.”
“Romantic.”
“That’s me.” She links her fingers with mine. “Come on, champion. Your team’s waiting. And then…” Her eyes darken in a way that makes my whole body respond. “Then we’re going home, and I’m going to show you exactly how proud I am, you beautiful, brilliant, emotionally available man.”
And that—being seen, being known, being loved for exactly who I am—that’s better than any championship could ever be.
Though the championship is pretty fucking sweet too.