This was going to be a long game.
By the end of the first period, Boston led 2-0 and Libby had stopped pretending she was watching objectively. She'd screamed herself hoarse when Liam threaded a pass through three defenders that Mattingley buried top shelf. She'd grabbed Georgia's arm when Jensen went on a breakaway—Liam's perfectly timed stretch pass hitting him in stride—and nearly leftpermanent nail marks when the goalie got a piece of it before it trickled over the line.
"He's playing angry," Charles observed during the intermission. "Or inspired. Hard to tell the difference sometimes."
"Inspired," Helen said firmly, glancing at Libby with unmistakable warmth.
Georgia caught Libby's eye and winked.
The second period was brutal. Montreal came out desperate—heavy hits, crowding the crease, the kind of physical intimidation that made Libby want to climb down to ice level and personally fight their entire defensive line.
They scored once. Libby grabbed Georgia's hand.
They scored again. 2-2 with eight minutes left in the period. Libby stopped breathing.
Liam blocked a shot that sent him sliding into the boards. He got up slow—too slow—and Libby was already half out of her seat before she saw him shake it off and skate back to the bench. He tested his leg. Hopped back over the boards.
"He's fine," Georgia said, reading her expression. "I've seen him play through three cracked ribs and a separated shoulder."
"That doesn't make me feel better."
"It's not supposed to. It's just true."
The third period stretched into eternity. Every shift felt like torture. Every time Liam touched the puck, Libby's heart tried to escape her chest through her throat. Boston scored on the power play—Morrison from Liam, again—and took a 3-2 lead.
Two minutes left. Montreal pulled their goalie. Six attackers against five defenders and Libby couldn't feel her hands.
Charles was leaning forward in his seat, knuckles white on the armrests. Helen had stopped watching, eyes closed like she was praying. Georgia was doing a running commentary under her breath: "Clear it clear itclear it?—”
The buzzer sounded.
Boston won, 3-2. Series over. They were going to the Stanley Cup Final.
The Garden exploded into chaos. Confetti cannons fired, the goal horn blared on repeat, and suddenly there were people everywhere—security trying to maintain order, fans storming toward the glass, the entire building shaking with noise.
Libby stood, looking for Liam on the ice, but couldn't find him in the mass of blue and silver jerseys mobbing each other. Players were throwing helmets, gloves, sticks raised to the crowd. Somewhere in that chaos was Liam, but she couldn't see him.
She needed to see him.
"Go," Georgia said, understanding immediately.
Libby pushed toward the exit, some invisible string pulling her toward the ice. The concourse was pandemonium—celebrating fans, Steel staff running toward the ice, Montreal fans filing out in grim silence. She made it down two levels before the crowd became impenetrable. Security had locked down access to ice level.
She pressed forward anyway, wedging through gaps, apologizing to people she definitely elbowed. By the time she reached the glass, they were already presenting the Prince of Wales trophy—Liam and his teammates in matching championship ball caps, the trophy gleaming under arena lights.
The team passed it around, each player hoisting it with exhausted grins. Liam lifted it last, as captain, and the roar from the crowd somehow got louder.
Then the press swarmed in—cameras, boom mics, reporters shouting questions—and Libby lost sight of him again.
She moved along the glass, trying to find an angle, and then?—
There. Through a gap in the media scrum.
Liam, championship hat backwards, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for something specific.
Looking for her.
Their eyes met across the ice. His expression shifted—relief, recognition, something that made her breath catch.
