Three years later...
There are loud arenas... and then there'sthis.
Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final, third period, tied, and twenty thousand people are losing their minds so violently it feels like the building is breathing. Every inch of the ice hums under my skates. The air is tight, electric, the kind that crawls under your gear and settles straight into your bones.
I've played a lot of big games in my life, but nothing touches this one. Not even last year's Cup run. Not even the night I won Rookie of the Year and felt like the whole world suddenly knew my name.
Back then, all I wanted was to prove I belonged in the league. Now the stakes are different. Bigger. Heavier in a way that somehow calms me instead of shaking me.
I take a hard stride into the offensive zone, loop behind Elijah, feel the puck settle into the rhythm of the play. Everything narrows. Noise falls away. And then I catch his eyes—one quick glance—and I know he's about to feed it to me.
He does.
The pass hits my stick with that clean, perfect little click that still gives me goosebumps. I cut inside, shoulder low, pushing past a defender who tries to ride me off the lane. My legs burn, my lungs sting, the Knights' goalie squares up, and I swear time slows just enough for me to see exactly where the puck needs to go.
I flick my wrists.
Top corner.
The net snaps.
And the arena breaks into full-on chaos…
The roar slams into me like a physical force—my teammates crashing in from every angle, bodies colliding, helmets tapping mine, someone yelling in my ear, "HAT TRICK! HOLY—" before getting swallowed by the noise.
I'm laughing, breathless, half-crushed by the pile, but my eyes immediately dart to the first place they always go.
And there she is.
My wife.
Caroline is on her feet, practically vibrating with excitement, one hand braced on the railing, the other waving wildly as if she's trying to flag down aircraft. Her bump—four months and impossible to miss—is right there under the oversized Panthers jersey with my name on the back, and the sight hits me so hard my chest actually warms inside my pads.
I skate toward her section, still grinning like a fool, and lift my stick toward her—our little thing. She beams, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing, mouthingI love youwith so much joy it almost knocks me off balance.
I mouth it back, because how could I not?
She looks like happiness incarnate, the kind that makes you want to win everything just so you can keep giving her reasons to smile like that.
For a second, she bounces too hard on her toes and I genuinely panic she's going to launch herself over the railing. My heart nearly stops.
Pregnant wife energy is wild and unpredictable and, frankly, terrifying. She catches her balance and starts laughing—and God, she's adorable. Radiant and adorable and absolutely the reason I want to skate through a brick wall right now.
My mom sits beside Caroline, already dabbing at her eyes.
Caroline's parents, on the other hand, didn't come tonight.
Not because they couldn't.
Because they volunteered—and I mean aggressively volunteered—to babysit.
Two days ago they practically kicked our front door down, scooped up our one year old son, and said something noble like,"You two deserve quiet time before the championship."
Right.
Uh-huh.
Sure.
