I dip my chin once.
My temple taps the post. Right. Left. The world gets small and sharp and clear.
The roar of the crowd swells.
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like something I have to block out.
It feels like backup.
Talia
The rink smells the same.
It doesn’t matter that this arena holds twenty thousand people or that the ice is maintained by a dedicated engineering team. It still smells like cold, ozone, and that faint metallic-penny tang.
It’s the same smell that used to make my lungs seize.
Now, when I breathe it in, my chest expands.
It hits memories—how could it not?—but those memories aren’t just one night anymore. They’re layered. College games. The draft. The move to the city. Declan holding my hand while I opened my med school acceptance letter.
I’m not in the owner’s box. I hate it up there. It’s too sterile.
I’m standing in the standing-room section right behind the glass, flanked by my people.
Zoë flew in last night, wearing a jersey she bedazzled herself. Clara and Genny are sharing popcorn—Clara wearing Adrian's jersey, a wedding band glinting on her finger. My dad is here too, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the ice with the critical eye of a coach who can’t quite turn it off.
But he’s not coaching today. He’s just a dad. And a fan.
“He looks good,” my dad murmurs, eyes tracking Declan’s warm-up movements. “Tight. Focused.”
“He’s ready,” I say.
My dad looks at me. The lines around his eyes have softened over the last two years. Since the scandal, since he rebuilt the Titans program the right way, he’s been lighter.
“You good?” he asks, checking. He always checks when we’re at a rink.
“I’m good, Dad,” I say, and I mean it.
My gaze finds him automatically.
Declan.
He’s in his crease. He looks like a statue until the puck gets anywhere near our zone; then he becomes something else entirely.
The game is a blur of violence and speed. The NHL is faster, harder, meaner than college ever was. Bodies smash into the glass right in front of us, shaking the boards.
But Declan is the anchor.
He shuts down a breakaway in the second period that makes the entire arena vibrate. He tracks a deflection in the third that defies physics, glove snapping out to snatch air and rubber.
When the final horn sounds, the noise is deafening.
We won. We’re going to the Finals.
The team floods toward the net, a tidal wave of jerseys collapsing over #13.
He lets them have it for a beat. Then he starts shrugging them off.
