The building erupts. I'm on my feet without realizing it, screaming along with the entire building as Benny is mobbed by his teammates. Our box dissolves into hugs and high-fives. I find myself wrapped in Natasha's arms, then Elena's, laughing and shouting wordlessly.
1-1.
The rest of the second period is a blur of chances both ways, neither team able to break through again. By the time the buzzer sounds, my voice is hoarse and my hands hurt from clenching them without stopping. Twenty minutes left in regulation. Twenty minutes to decide who goes to the Stanley Cup Finals.
"I need a drink," Elena announces during intermission, disappearing toward the bar at the back of the suite. She returns with two hard seltzers and hands me one. It’s cold and it feels good on my throat.
The third period begins with the same frantic energy, both teams sensing that the next goal might be decisive. Five minutes in, disaster strikes again. A turnover at our blue line, a quickpass to their sniper, and the puck is behind our goalie before anyone can react.
2-1 Colorado.
The crowd groans. I grab Elena's arm, my fingers digging in so hard she winces. "Sorry," I whisper, but I don't let go.
"Mac's got this," she says, using Logan's hockey nickname in a way she never does off the ice. "Look at him."
She's right. Logan has gathered the team at the bench, speaking intensely, as he points and directs. His teammates respond with nods and fist bumps.
The minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. The crowd holds its breath with every Colorado possession. If they score again, this might be over. Each Blades chance carries enormous weight. With twelve minutes left, we get a power play—Colorado's defenseman sent to the box for a blatant trip.
"Come on, come on," I mutter, hands pressed together like I'm praying. Maybe I am.
The power play unit cycles the puck with precision, searching for an opening. Logan quarterbacks from the point, directing traffic, drawing defenders toward him before sliding a perfect pass to Jonesy at the side of the net. He lifts the puck over the goalie’s pad and in.
2-2.
I'm screaming again, everyone is, the sound washing over me in waves. Natasha hugs me so hard I nearly lose my balance, both of us jumping like teenagers at a concert. The relief is overwhelming—we're back in it, still fighting.
The final ten minutes are a showcase of desperation from both teams—bodies sacrificed to block shots, every inch of ice contested, no space given without a battle. With just over two minutes left, Logan makes a play—anticipating a cross-ice pass at center ice, stepping into the lane to intercept it, creating a turnover that catches Colorado flat-footed.
He doesn't hesitate. In one fluid motion, he transitions from defense to offense, drawing the lone defender toward him before threading a perfect pass to Kovy streaking down the wing. Kovy cuts to the middle, dekes once, and fires the puck past the goalie's outstretched glove.
3-2 Blades.
The United Center explodes. I'm hugging Elena and Natasha simultaneously, all three of us screaming incoherently. Kovy's wife is sobbing and laughing at the same time, accepting embraces from everyone within reach. The crowd noise is overwhelming.
The final two minutes are torture. Colorado pulls their goalie, sending six attackers against our five defenders. Logan blocks a shot with his leg, grimacing but staying in the play. Our goalie makes an impossible save with thirty seconds left. The clock counts down, each second passing with glacial slowness.
When the final horn sounds, the Blades pour over the boards, throwing their gloves and sticks into the air, colliding in a massive celebration at center ice. Logan is in the middle of it all, his teammates mobbing him, pounding his helmet, screaming in his face.
Western Conference Champions.
I stand frozen, Logan just won the Western Conference Finals. We're going to the Stanley Cup Finals. The players form a handshake line with the defeated Colorado players, which I think is one of the coolest traditions in sports.
And then Logan is skating back toward his celebrating teammates, helmet off now, his face visible. But instead of joining them immediately, he turns toward the stands, eyes searching with unmistakable purpose. Finding our section. Finding me.
His face transforms with a smile that holds everything—triumph, relief, love, promise. He points at me, as if to say, “This is for us. We did this together.”
Once my mind snaps back, I notice all the wives and girlfriends are gathering purses and jackets, preparing to head down to meet their men. Elena tugs at my arm gently.
"Come on," she says. "Let’s go. Nate and Logan need us."
I follow her, still dazed by the roller coaster of the last three hours. The hallways blur as we navigate toward the locker room area, my mind replaying that final moment with Logan's eyes finding mine.
Logan gets back to his place well after midnight. He looks wrecked in the most beautiful way—hair damp, face flushed from celebration, eyes bright but heavy-lidded with exhaustion. I stand from where I've been waiting on his couch in nervous anticipation. We've seen each other, touched briefly in the chaotic family room after the game, but this is different. This is us, alone, with nothing and no one between us for the first time in weeks.
Then he smiles a big beautiful smile. He drops his bag by the door and crosses the space between us in three long strides. His arms wrap around me, pulling me against his chest with a gentle desperation. I breathe him in— the faint musk that's uniquely him, and a hint of champagne and beer.
"You're really here," he murmurs into my hair.
