I nod, jaw tight, even though the wordopticsgrates.
Charlotte nods, composed. “Understood.”
We thank him and step back into the hallway.
Charlotte exhales, shoulders lowering a fraction. “Well,” she says quietly, “that’s done. Or almost.”
“Almost,” I agree. “Guess we wait for the email.”
She gives a small, tired smile. “A few more days won’t kill us.”
I nod, though the thought sits heavier than it should. Ten weeks of waiting, and somehow we’re still not quite free.
I study her a second. She looks pale. “You sure you’re okay?”
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, smiling like she’s fine. “Just tired. It’s been a long stretch.”
I nod, even though I feel like there’s something she’s not saying. “We should celebrate once we get that email, okay?”
“Deal.”
She turns to go, the folder pressed to her chest, shoulders still tight. I stay where I am, pulse still buzzing from the ice and the meeting, watching her disappear down the hall.
Everything’s finally falling into place: my knee, the team, us. But deep down, I can’t shake the feeling something’s about to shift again.
By puck drop, the arena is already shaking.
The place is a blur of noise and lights: silver rally towels spinning, the crowd chanting before the first whistle. My chest feels like it’s going to crack open. Finally, I’m here. Back where I belong.
The anthem ends, the horn sounds, and I skate a slow circle at center ice, letting the noise hit me. The boards hum under my blades. Every stride feels like coming home.
Across the rink, I catch a flash of navy near the tunnel. It’s Charlotte, headset on, tablet in hand, calm and professional as ever. She looks up just once, and even from this far away, I see it—the faint smile, the quiet pride. It’s enough to center me.
Sophie’s in the stands too, grinning a few rows up behind the bench. Her sign’s impossible to miss: “WELCOME BACK, DAD!” covered in glitter that practically glows under the lights.
The first shift hits like an adrenaline rush. Vegas plays desperate, throwing checks like it’s their last game of the season. My timing’s off for maybe half a shift, then it all locks in: vision, tempo, the old rhythm slotting back into place.
I take a hard pass off the boards, fire it cross-ice to Tyler, and the crowd roars as he buries it top shelf. One-nothing, Foxes.
We build from there with tight plays and a relentless pace. Every line’s rolling. David’s barking adjustments, McCarthy keeping the fire lit. The energy’s the kind you only get in playoff hockey: loud, hungry, electric.
By the third, we’re up by one. Vegas pulls their goalie, crowd’s on its feet. I win the draw clean, chip it down the ice, and watch it glide—slow, perfect—straight into the empty net.
Horn.
3–1.
Series over.
We win the Western Conference. We’re in the Final.
The bench clears, gloves and helmets flying. McCarthy grabs me first, arms around my shoulders. “Hell of a comeback, Captain.”
David’s next, grin wide. “Welcome home, man.”
It’s chaos: cheers, cameras, rally towels whipping through the air. But under it all, there’s this quiet thrum in my chest. Relief. Gratitude. Home.
When the crowd noise finally softens, I glance toward the tunnel again. Charlotte’s there, headset off now, just watching. Our eyes meet through the blur of people and confetti, and for a second, everything else drops away. She smiles—tired, proud—but there’s something else there too, something I can’t quite read.
