Natasha Kovalchuk's distinctive accent cuts through the noise. Before I can prepare myself, she's wrapping me in a tight hug that smells like her perfume and hint of cigarette smoke.
"We missed you," she says, her voice warm against my ear. Then she pulls back, holding me at arm's length to study my face. "Logan missed you," she adds, her direct gaze leaving no room for disagreement. "Everyone could see. When you left—" She makes a diving motion with her hand. "Down, down, down. Now you're back." She smiles. "He's back too."
"Thanks, Tasha. I’m glad to be back." I say.
"Come, sit with us." She links her arm through mine, guiding me toward a section of seats near the front of the suite. Elena follows, taking the seat on my other side.
The arena below us pulses with Game 7 energy which is unlike anything I've ever witnessed. Every seat is filled, a solid wall of red and black with scattered pockets of Colorado's burgundy and blue. Playoff banners hang from the rafters, and the sound system blasts music so loud I feel it as much as I hear it. Fans pound on the glass during warmups, their faces painted, their voices will be gone tomorrow from screaming.
"This is insane," I whisper to Elena, who nods in agreement.
"Conference Finals, Game 7. Winner plays for the Stanley Cup. Doesn't get bigger than this."
The players are on the ice for warmups, circling and stretching, taking shots, their movements a dance of controlled preparation. I find Logan immediately.
Something's different. I lean forward in my seat, watching him more intently. He’s moving gracefully again. He's not just going through the motions; there's purpose in every stride, confidence in the way he handles the puck.
"See?" Natasha says, noticing my focus. "Different man."
She's right. This is the Logan I fell in love with—strong, centered, sure of himself and his place in the world. He skates toward our end, corrals a loose puck, and sends it toward the net with an easy flick of his wrist. As he turns to circle back, his eyes lift to the stands, scanning with purpose until they find our section. Find me.
He stops, just for a moment. Gives a deliberate point and a nod that might be invisible to anyone not looking for it. But I am, and I see it, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
The WAGs continue their chatter—discussing their man’s silly superstitious routines, sharing gossip, making predictions.
The warmups end, the ice is cleared, and the anticipation in the building ratchets up another notch. The lights dim dramatically, spotlights swirling across the ice as the announcer's voice booms through the speakers, introducing the starting lineups with theatrical emphasis. When Logan's name is called, the crowd erupts in a roar that shakes the floor.
Both teams line up on their blue lines for the national anthem, the singer's voice somehow amplifying the electric atmosphere. Logan stands straight and still, his focus absolute, his hand over his heart.
The anthem ends and the crowd roars its approval. The starters take their positions for the opening face-off.
The puck drops. Game 7 starts with a bone-crushing hit along the boards, a desperate diving play to clear the defensive zone, a near-miss that has everyone jumping to their feet.
I'm back where I belong, watching the man I love do what he was born to do.
I gasp for about the 10th time as another Colorado shot clangs off the post, the sound reverberating through the arena. The first period has been twenty minutes of hockey like I’ve never seen—brilliant saves, bone-crushing hits, and heart-stopping chances for both teams. I feel like I’ve barely breathed, my body tensing with every rush up ice, every loose puck in front of our net. Elena grabs my hand and squeezes.
"Breathe," she reminds me as the buzzer signals the end of the first period. The scoreboard shows zeros for both teams.
"That was..." I exhale, realizing I've been perched on the edge of my seat for the entire period.
"Intense," Natasha supplies, leaning over. "Great hockey. Fast." She makes a swooping gesture with her hand. "Like playoff hockey should be."
When the teams return for the second period, the tension in the building has somehow intensified. Each play feels weighted with consequence. Logan is staying on the ice longer than usual, his presence a steadying force for the younger players.
It happens six minutes into the period—a harmless-looking shot from the point that deflects off someone's leg or stick, changing direction just enough to fool our goalie. The red light flashes. Colorado celebrates. The United Center crowd falls into stunned silence.
1-0.
"No, no, no," I whisper. Across the ice, Logan slams his stick against the boards in frustration, his body language telling the story his face, hidden by his helmet, cannot.
"Not good," mutters Benny's wife from a few seats away. "First goal is huge tonight."
Elena puts her arm around me and gives me a reassuring squeeze. "Plenty of time," she says.
The Blades push back hard after the goal. Logan is everywhere—blocking shots, making hits, driving the play forward with sheer will. His intensity is contagious, and you can see it in the team.
Eight minutes later, it pays off. Benny gets the puck at the top of the circle, a sliver of space opening up as the defense shifts. His wrist shot is a blur, finding the top corner before the Colorado goalie can react.
