CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAMPIONSHIP & CHOICES
Elise
The Johns Hopkins interview is in six days.
Playoffs are in six days.
Same day. Same time. Three hundred miles apart.
I’m lying in Grant’s bed at 3 AM doing math that doesn’t add up no matter how many times I recalculate. Drive time: four hours minimum. Interview duration: probably two hours. Game time: 7 PM.
It’s impossible.
“Stop thinking so loud.” Grant’s voice is rough with sleep. His arm tightens around my waist.
“Can’t help it.”
“Try.”
On my other side, Jordie shifts. “She’s doing the thing again.”
“What thing?” I ask.
“The thing where you try to solve impossible problems through sheer force of will.” Wyatt’s voice comes from the other side of Jordie.
“It’s not impossible. I just need to—”
“Choose,” Grant finishes. His voice is careful. Too careful. “You need to choose.”
The word sits there like a grenade.
“I’m going to the game,” I say.
“Elise—”
“I’m going. You can’t make me go to that interview.”
“It’s Johns Hopkins.” Jordie props himself up on one elbow. “It’s your dream.”
“You’re my dream too. All of you.”
“That’s—” Grant stops. Starts again. “That’s not how this works.”
“Why not?”
“Because we’re twenty-one years old playing a game. You’re trying to save lives. There’s no comparison.”
I sit up. All three of them are looking at me now in the dark.
“Don’t do that. Don’t diminish what you do like it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Wyatt says. “But not more than your future.”
“My future is with you.”
“In six months I’ll be in Chicago. Grant will be in Boston. Jordie will be—wherever he ends up.” Wyatt’s voice is flat. Factual. “You’ll be in med school. Probably not even on the East Coast.”
“So what, we just—give up?”
“No. But we don’t ask you to sacrifice your dreams for ours.”
I’m about to argue when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
3:17 AM. Who the hell—
It’s an email. I quickly read it.
“Johns Hopkins rescheduled. Via Zoom. After the game.”
Silence.
Then Jordie asks, “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“So you can—” Wyatt sits up. “You can do both?”
“I can do both.”
Grant pulls me back down to the bed. Kisses me hard. “You can do both.”
“I can do both.” I’m laughing and crying at the same time. “I don’t have to choose.”
“Best news all week,” Jordie says. “Besides, you know, not getting expelled.”
“Bar’s pretty low right now,” Wyatt mutters, but he’s grinning.
We lie there in the dark, tangled together, and for the first time in six days I can breathe.
Game day arrives like a hurricane.
The arena is packed. Standing room only. Every sports blogger and scout and reporter on the Eastern seaboard showed up to watch the “controversial captain” play.
I’m in the stands wearing a custom jersey that Jordie’s mom—yes, Senator Dickson’s wife—had made for me.
It’s got all three of their numbers. Grant’s 17. Wyatt’s 47. Jordie’s 23.
And on the back where a name would normally go: THEIRS
Subtle. Real subtle.
But when I walked into the arena and the guys saw me, Grant’s face did this thing. This soft, vulnerable, completely wrecked thing that made my chest hurt.
Worth it.
Teddy’s beside me. He drove up for the game. “You’re not nervous at all, are you?”
“I’m terrified.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” He nods at my hands. I’m gripping the railing so hard my knuckles are white.
“It’s playoffs. I’m allowed to be nervous.”
“It’s more than that.”
He’s right. It is more than that.
This is their shot. Their one chance to prove to scouts and coaches and everyone who’s been talking trash for the past two weeks that they’re more than a scandal.
The teams take the ice. Crestmont in their home blue. Opponents in white.
Grant leads them out as captain. Wyatt and Jordie flank him.
They look—God, they look good. Focused. Dangerous. Like they’re about to go to war.
The national anthem plays. The crowd roars. The puck drops.
And it’s on.
First period is brutal.
The opposing team is playing dirty. Targeting Grant specifically. Trying to get in his head.
Five minutes in, one of their guys checks Grant into the boards so hard I hear the impact from the stands.
Grant gets up. Skates it off. But I see the way his jaw is clenched.
Wyatt sees it too. Next shift, the guy who hit Grant ends up flat on his ass. Wyatt didn’t even look like he tried that hard.
“That’s my boy,” Teddy mutters.
Jordie’s playing enforcer. Literally putting his body between Grant and anyone who gets too close. It’s protection and strategy and something that looks a lot like love.
Ten minutes in, Grant scores.
The arena explodes.
He doesn’t celebrate. Just skates back to center ice with that cold, focused expression that means he’s in the zone.
But as he passes the bench, he glances up. Finds me in the crowd.
Taps his chest twice.
For you.
Oh god, I’m crying. This is so embarrassing. Super dignified, Hart.
“You good?” Teddy leans over, concern creasing his forehead.
“So good,” I manage, wiping under my eyes before my mascara turns me into a raccoon.
Second period is worse.
The other team scores. Then scores again.
2-1. Wrong direction.
I can see the tension in Grant’s shoulders. The way Wyatt keeps looking at the clock. Jordie’s getting chippy, taking penalties he shouldn’t take.
They’re rattled. All three of them.
Then with eight minutes left in the period, something shifts on the ice. Wyatt intercepts a pass at the blue line and feeds it to Jordie in one smooth motion. Jordie doesn’t hesitate—just shoots it across the ice to Grant, tape to tape, and Grant winds up without thinking.
The puck hits the back of the net so fast I almost miss it.
Goal. 3-2 Crestmont.
This time Grant does celebrate. Wyatt and Jordie crash into him and they’re all laughing, helmets pressed together, and I’m filming it on my phone because this moment—this exact moment—needs to be remembered.
By the third period, I’ve completely lost my voice from screaming. My throat feels raw, scratched up from the inside, but I can’t stop.
4-3 Crestmont.
Then 4-4.
Then 5-4, and I’m on my feet with everyone else, hands gripped together so tight my knuckles ache.
Back and forth, back and forth. No one can hold a lead for more than thirty seconds.
Two minutes left on the clock and it’s 5-5, tied up with everything on the line.
The buzzer sounds for the end of regulation.
Overtime.
“I can’t watch,” I tell Teddy.
“Yes you can.”
“I’m gonna throw up.”
“Do it quietly. Don’t embarrass them.”
The overtime period is five minutes of pure chaos.
Grant’s line is out first. Wyatt’s on defense. Jordie’s rotating.
Three minutes in, Wyatt gets the puck. He’s flying down ice, two defenders on him, nowhere to pass.
Except—
He sees Grant. Makes this impossible pass that threads between two guys and lands perfectly on Grant’s stick.
Grant’s got the goalie one-on-one.
Everyone in the arena is on their feet.
He shoots.
The puck hits the back of the net.
Game over.
Crestmont wins.
The arena detonates. Players pour off the bench. Fans are screaming. Someone’s throwing a hat on the ice.
And Grant—Grant’s being mobbed by his team. Wyatt and Jordie get to him first. They’re all tangled together, helmets off, laughing and shouting and—
Grant looks up. Finds me again.
Points.
This one’s for you baby, he seems to say.
I don’t remember how I get down to ice level. Teddy might’ve helped. Security definitely tried to stop me but backed off when they saw my jersey.
By the time I reach the tunnel, the team’s streaming off the ice.
Grant sees me first.
He’s still in full gear, helmet off, hair a disaster, and he’s crossing the space between us in three strides.
Picks me up. Spins me. Kisses me in front of everyone—teammates, coaches, media, fans still watching from above.
“We won,” he says against my mouth.
“You won.”
“Because you were here.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.” He sets me down but doesn’t let go. “Every time I looked up and saw you, I remembered why I’m doing this.”
Wyatt and Jordie appear. Still in gear. Still grinning like idiots.
“Did you see that pass?” Wyatt’s eyes are bright. “Did you see—”
“I saw it. It was perfect.”
“Grant actually finished for once,” Jordie adds. “Didn’t choke.”
“Shut up, Dickson.”
They’re all talking over each other, high on adrenaline and victory, and I’m just standing there trying to memorize everything about this moment.
The way Grant’s hand won’t leave my waist. The way Wyatt keeps touching my shoulder like he needs to make sure I’m real. The way Jordie can’t stop smiling.
This. This right here. This is what matters.
“Miss Hart!”
A reporter’s pushed through. Camera crew behind her. “Can we get a quote about—”
“No,” Grant says flatly.
“Just one question—”
“She said no.” Wyatt steps between us and the camera. His voice is pleasant. His expression is not.
The reporter backs off.
“We should go,” Jordie says. “Before they trap us here all night.”
“Locker room first,” Grant says. “Then home.”
Home.
Our home. Together.