The crowd noise spiked—a sharp, rising surge that meant they'd seen it too.
I hit the blue line with speed, Desrosiers flying up my right side, and their last defender had to choose: step to me or cover the pass.
He stepped toward me.
I slid the puck across.
Desrosiers one-timed it top shelf.
The arena went nuclear.
I didn't raise my stick. I exhaled and let the sound crash over me like a tsunami.
Recognition, not surprise.
With four minutes left, we were up 4-3, and their coach pulled the goalie.
I was out there for the final shift, legs burning, lungs screaming, and every muscle reminding me I'd been playing hard for fifty-six minutes.
The puck bounced loose in the neutral zone. I got there first.
No time or space. Three of their guys collapsing on me.
Jake streaked up the far wing—too far, technically. The angle was impossible. The lane didn't exist.
I sent the puck anyway.
Backhand sauce, threaded between two defenders who didn't see it coming because it shouldn't have worked.
The puck landed flat on Jake's tape.
He fired it into the empty net from center ice.
The building exploded.
This time I did lift my stick. Acknowledgment. Yeah, okay, that one was pretty good.
Jake crashed into me at full speed, laughing like a maniac. Evan joined the pile. Then Desrosiers. Then half the bench.
The final horn sounded. We'd won. 5-3. Final home game of the season. Playoffs locked.
I pulled off my helmet and let the cold air hit my face. Sweat dripped down my temples, and my chest heaved. I felt good.
Not perfect or flawless. Competent, credible, and present.
I'd made a dumb penalty, but I'd also made plays that mattered. Both were true. Both were me.
Everything descended into chaos—fans banging on the glass and teammates cycling through hugs and chirps. Someone had started a chant, and it was spreading like a virus.
I let myself get pulled into it. Hog crushed me in a bear hug that lifted my skates off the ice. Coach grabbed my shoulder and said something I didn't quite catch but understood from the weight of his hand.
Then I looked up. My eyes drifted to the usual spot—section 104, row J, seat 12—and there he was.
Adrian.
Same seat he'd had for weeks. Same dark jacket. Same posture—elbows on his knees, leaning forward. Watching.
No camera. He was a guy in the stands watching his boyfriend play hockey.
