Midway through the first period, the camera found Finn again. He was using his inhaler, Sarah's mother rubbing his back. The sign had been abandoned. He looked small and scared and lonely.
"I have to go," I said, already standing.
"Finally." Maria grabbed her keys. "I'm driving. You're a mess."
"Maria—"
"Shut up. We're fixing this. You're going to walk into that arena, find your kid, and be his mom. Then when Brad wins—because he will, the stubborn bastard always does—you're going to tell him about the baby."
"What if—"
"No what-ifs. Just show up. That's all they've ever needed from you."
The drive to the arena felt like flying toward salvation or disaster. In my pocket, my phone buzzed with another text from Brad:Finn's breathing is rough. He needs you. I need you. Please.
"I’m going to fix this," I whispered.
"What?" Maria asked.
"Nothing. Just drive faster."
Chapter 29: Brad
I took the ice for Game 7 feeling like someone had scooped out my chest with a melon baller. The anthem played while I stood at the blue line, scanning the family suite one more time—Finn flanked by Sarah's parents, the space beside him where Serena should be sitting gaping like a missing tooth. My phone, locked in the trainer's room, had been silent since my last desperate text.
"Wilder, you with us?" Coach grabbed my shoulder, his eyes searching mine for the focus that had abandoned me.
"I'm here."
"No, you're not. But fake it for sixty minutes."
The opening faceoff came at me in slow motion. Carolina's Steve—six-foot-five giant—won it clean, driving the puck back to their defense. First shift, I tried to pivot left to pressure their winger. My knee folded like origami. I caught myself on my stick, but Steve had already blown past me, forcing Martinez to scramble.
"You okay?" Theo hissed during the change.
"Peachy."
But I wasn't. Every stride felt like grinding broken glass in my joint. Carolina smelled blood—they started running every play at me, forcing me to turn on the bad knee. Aiden danced around me like I was a traffic cone. Troy treated me like a turnstile. By the ten-minute mark, I'd been on ice for two grade-A chances against.
"You okay?" Theo hissed during the change.
"Fine."
"She's watching." He didn't look at me, eyes tracking the play. "Maria texted. They're at Serena's place, watching together."
Something unknotted in my chest. Not gone. Just... away.
The first period ended scoreless, but the shot count told the story: Carolina 14, Colorado 6. I'd been on for eight of those shots against. In the room, Dr. Patricia shot my knee full of something that made everything go numb from hip to ankle—lidocaine mixed with cortisone mixed with prayer.
"This is temporary," she warned, her hand lingering on my thigh as she pulled the needle away. "When it wears off, you're going to be in agony. You know that, right?"
"Just make it last twenty more minutes."
She shook her head. "You're such a fool, Brad. A stubborn fool."
Second period, we came out desperate. Derek went full video game mode, splitting their defense and roofing a backhand that had no business going in. 1-0 us. The building exploded. On the bench, I caught myself looking for Serena in the suite, forgetting she wasn't there.
Carolina answered four minutes later, and it was my fault. Their forecheck forced me to reverse behind our net, but my knee locked mid-turn. The puck squirted free. Steve pounced, banking it off our goalie's skate. 1-1. I slammed my stick against the boards hard enough to crack it.
