Mia glances at me sideways. "I don't know if that's specifically what they were doing, but... yeah. I saw Silas scan the crowd before the first period. He definitely looked up here."
My stomach twists into a knot so tight I think I might be sick.
On the ice, Felix breaks away with the puck. For a second, hope flares in my chest. He splits the defense beautifully, dekes left, pulls the goalie out of position... but shoots the puck wide. By three feet. It's not even close.
He coasts to a stop, head hanging, and I can feel the self-recrimination radiating off him.
"Come on," I whisper, pressing closer to the glass. "Come on, Felix."
Brookfield counter-attacks immediately. Number 52 moves like he's got rockets strapped to his skates, carrying the puck through center ice. Liam steps up to challenge and gets turned around so badly he actually stumbles, barely keeping his feet under him.
The shot that follows feels inevitable. Matthews lunges, gets a piece of it with his blocker, and the puck deflects wide of the net. The crowd exhales in collective relief.
Still 5-2, but it feels like they're just delaying the inevitable.
The arena has gone quiet except for the small contingent of Brookfield fans celebrating every near miss in the far corner.
"How much time is left?" I ask, too absorbed by the game to even notice the timer.
"Sixteen minutes," Mia says softly.
Sixteen minutes. Sixteen minutes for a miracle. Sixteen minutes for me to somehow project every ounce of belief and support I have through this glass and onto that ice, hoping it might make a difference.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the three of them. They're huddled together, a moment before the next face-off. Silas is talking, gesturing sharply with his hands. Felix nods but his shoulders are still slumped, his stick hanging loose. Liam stands slightly apart from them, staring at nothing, like he's somewhere else entirely.
The puck drops. Silas wins this one, snapping it back to the defense. Small victory. They break out of their zone, actually completing two passes in a row, and the crowd stirs, sensing possibility, wanting so badly to believe.
But then it falls apart. A miscommunication at Brookfield's blue line—Felix goes left, Silas goes right, and the puck goes to neither of them. Brookfield scoops it up and heads the other way.
"Please," I whisper against the glass. I'm not even sure what I'm asking for anymore. For them to score. For them to remember how to play together. For them to somehow know I'm here, that I came, that I'm not running away.
I close my eyes for just a second and try to send them everything I can't say out loud. That I'm sorry I was late. That I see them struggling and it's tearing me apart. That I'm here now and I'm not leaving. That watching them hurt like this is killing me.
And when I open my eyes, Silas is looking directly at the VIP box.
Our eyes meet across the distance, through the glass. Even from here, even through his visor, I can see the moment he registers that I'm here. His whole body goes still, frozen in the middle of the chaos swirling around him.
Then someone almost slams into him from behind and he's forced back into motion, but something in his posture has changed. He's skating differently now. He cuts across the ice to Felix, grabs his jersey, says something I can't hear, and Felix's head snaps up toward the VIP box.
He sees me. His whole body language shifts, shoulders squaring, spine straightening.
Liam follows their gaze a moment later. For one suspended heartbeat, all three of them are looking up at me while play continues around them, the game momentarily forgotten.
I stand up from my seat, press both palms flat against the cold glass, and mouth the only words that matter:You've got this.
Fifteen minutes left.
Chapter twenty-seven
Liam
She's here.
Naomi is in the VIP box, hands pressed against the glass, looking at us like... like she believes in us.
"She stayed," Felix breathes beside me, and his voice cracks on the words. "She fucking stayed."
"Stop staring and focus," Silas barks, but his voice has changed too. The defeated edge is gone, replaced by something sharp and hungry. "We've got fifteen minutes."
