"I am," I reply. "Finally."
He nods, satisfaction evident in the set of his shoulders. "What changed?"
"You were right," I admit. "About everything. I was scared. Running. Trying to be three different people instead of one whole person."
"And now?"
"Now I know what I'm playing for." I glance toward the locker room, then back to him. "Who I'm playing for. All of it, together."
Sully's mouth curves into a slight smile. "Talked to Reese?"
"This morning." I don't elaborate, don't need to.
He seems to understand, clapping my shoulder once. "Good. That's good, Mac."
We file toward the tunnel for warmups. I take my place at the front of the line, as always.
The noise as the boys step on the ice is incredible—eighteen thousand voices rising in a wall of sound that vibrates through the concrete beneath our feet. I tap each teammate on the pads as they exit, a ritual I've performed hundreds of times, but tonight each touch feels more connected, more meaningful.
When my turn comes, I step onto the ice and the familiar sensation of skates cutting into the fresh surface centers me instantly. The chill rises from below, clearing my head, sharpening my senses. I push off, gaining speed with each stride, feeling the power in my legs, the precision in my edges. I’m back.
I circle the net, tap the posts four times—another superstition that now feels less like desperate insurance and more like respectful tradition. My body knows what to do. Has always known. I was just getting in my own way.
Then I spot her in the crowd—Reese, in her usual seat, wearing my jersey. Our eyes meet briefly.
Later, when we're lining up for the national anthem, I take my place at the blue line and feel a calm I haven't experienced in months, maybe years. The pressure is still there—the importance of this game, what it means for my career, for the team, for the city. And I love it.
The anthem ends. The crowd roars. The puck is about to drop on Game 7.
And for the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm completely ready.
Chapter 29
Reese
I’m weirdly aware of my breathing as Elena and I make our way through the crowded concourse of the United Center on our way to the Wives and Girlfriend Suite. The sea of red and black jerseys parts momentarily as we pass, a few heads turning to look at me with flickers of recognition.
I missed this, but it’s weird. Elena's hand squeezes mine as she senses my hesitation. "You belong here," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the roaring crowd. "Remember that."
I nod yes, but that’s not what I’m feeling.
At the VIP entrance, the security guard—Dave, who's worked here for fifteen years —breaks into a wide smile when he spots me.
"Ms. Thompson! Welcome back," he says, waving us through without checking our passes. "We missed you." He leans in, lowering his voice and winks at me. "Glad he came to his senses."
"Thanks, Dave," I manage, my cheeks warming. The news about Logan and me must have traveled through the entire arena. I wonder what version they heard.
The elevator ride up to the boxes is painfully slow. Elena chatters about something her father said to her yesterday, butmy mind bounces between memories of my last time here and anxiety about facing the WAGs after my conspicuous absence.
"They don't bite," Elena says as the doors slide open and we head to the suite. "Besides, half of them have been texting me asking if you’d be here tonight."
"Really?" This genuinely surprises me.
"Really. Now come on, game's about to start."
I scan the faces, searching for any sign of hostility or judgment, but find none. Still, I hesitate just inside the doorway.
"Reese!"
