About what she does on her knees instead of with her hands.
I don’t even remember deciding to move.
One second I’m stepping onto the ice, the next I’m driving straight at their winger, gloves already coming off. Beau is there at the same time, slamming into their captain with enough force to knock the breath out of him. Theo drops his stick and goes for the defenseman who laughed.
The Icebox explodes as fists remind faces what consequences feel like.
Helmets scatter and linesmen pile in, trying to separate bodies that don’t want to be separated. I take a punch to the jaw and give one back twice as hard, adrenaline roaring so loud I barely feel the sting.
I hear the whistle, but I don’t care. They dragged her into it.
We all end up in the box—offsetting majors, ten-minute misconducts handed out like candy—but the message is sent.
Riverton doesn’t chirp about her after that.
The third period is war, though. Skating lanes close as shots get blocked, and everyone finishes every check. Beau plays like a man possessed, his shoulder holding together through sheer will, throwing his body into corners and coming out with the puck anyway. Theo shuts down their top line with quiet efficiency, stick always in the right place, angles perfect.
With four minutes left, tied 2–2, I break down the right wing on a partial. Their defenseman overcommits, and I slip the puck back to Beau trailing high. He snaps it on net—not pretty, not perfect—but it squeaks through traffic and trickles past the goalie’s pad.
The roar is physical.
It hits you in the chest.
We spend the final minutes defending like our lives depend on it—because, in a way, they do. The Wolves throw everything they have at us; goalie pulled, extra attacker on, bodies stacked in front of our net like wreckage, and the Icebox is deafening.
It means that I don’t hear the final buzzer so much asfeelit—vibration through the ice, through my skates, through my chest. For half a second, nobody moves.
And then it hits.
We’ve done it. We’re through.
Beau slams into me, helmet to helmet, laughing like he can’t quite believe it himself, and Theo’s there too, solid and grinning, wrapping us both up as one word echoes in my head.
Finals.
As we skate off, legs rubbery and hearts still racing, my eyes find Emery without thinking. She’s already moving with the trainers, professional to the core, but when she looks up and meets my gaze, there’s no mistaking what I see there.
Pure, unfiltered pride.
For us. For this team.
For what we’ve built.
And whatever it took to get here—however ugly, however close—it doesn’t matter. We’re in the finals.
And we are riding the highest kind of high.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Emery
To call it a celebration feels laughably inadequate.
It starts in the driveway, before we even make it inside—Connor whooping loud enough to wake half the street, Theo laughing despite the brace on his leg, and Beau shaking his head like he can’t quite believe any of this is real. Snow crunches under our boots as they pile through the door, the cold following us in like a fifth guest before someone finally remembers to kick it back out.
“We’re in the finals,” Connor says again; as though if he repeats it enough times the universe won’t be able to take it back. “Tell me again we’re in the finals.”
“We’re in the finals,” Theo replies dryly, easing himself onto the bench by the door. “But if you shout it any louder, Riverton’s going to hear you from here.”
