“Speaking of,” she adds, “I’m proud of you. Balancing everything the way you do—it’s not easy.”
Her words land warm, grounding. “Thanks,” I say softly. “I’ll call you after the game, win or lose.”
“Oh, please,” Kristy says. “You and your captain arewinning tonight.I can feel it.”
When the call ends, I stay there for a second, hand over my stomach, listening to the echo of the crowd through the concrete walls. The hum of adrenaline mixes with something steadier. Peace, maybe, or the quiet certainty that everything is exactly where it should be.
Game 1 is starting. And for the first time in a long time, I’m not just part of the team. I’m part of something bigger.
The players line up in the tunnel, jerseys gleaming under the fluorescents, helmets tucked under their arms. The arena shakes with noise—music, fans, the steady chant ofLet’s go, Foxes!rolling through the concourse like thunder.
I spot Declan at the front of the line, shoulders set, eyes locked ahead. It’s all business now: captain mode, controlled and calm. But when he adjusts his gloves, his gaze flicks sideways, just long enough to find mine.
It’s half a second, maybe less, but it’s enough. A silentwe’ve got this.
My chest tightens with something that feels equal parts pride and awe.
He worked months to get back here—to trust that leg, to lead again. And now he’s exactly where he belongs.
As he skates out for warmups, the crowd erupts. I catch sight of Sophie in the lower rows, standing beside Erin and Maya. Declan skates past the bench and turns his head toward her for a heartbeat, then he’s locked back in.
I glance up at the scoreboard:Game 1: Ice Foxes vs. New York Forges.
Everything he’s fought for, everything we’ve built, comes down to this series.
I press a hand over my stomach, hidden behind my tablet.
I take my spot in the bench area, shoulder to shoulder with the training staff. From here, I can see everything.
Most nights, I’d be in the medical room watching the feed, waiting for the call if someone went down. But tonight’s different. Dan wants extra hands close to the bench area, and I want to see this one unfold with my own eyes.
The puck drops, and the building explodes.
The first few minutes are chaos in motion—blades carving lines into the ice, bodies colliding along the boards, every shift sharper than the last. The Foxes test the Forges’ goalie early; three shots in two minutes, all swallowed by his glove. The bench hums with restless energy, that silent rhythm of players leaning, watching, waiting for the next change.
Declan’s line goes out early. He wins the opening faceoff clean, that low, practiced power back in his stride. Every shift he takes looks stronger—controlled, confident, like the months of rehab finally paid off.
“Looks good out there,” Dan mutters beside me.
I nod, eyes still on Declan. “Better than good.”
A few minutes later, the Forges press back hard. Their captain threads a pass through the slot, but Declan drops to one knee toblock it, the puck thudding off his shin pad before he clears it down ice. The crowd roars—part relief, part pride. I can see the determination in every stride.
Between whistles, the crowd never really quiets. You can feel the noise in your ribs—the steady heartbeat of an arena that believes.
The second period tilts in our favor. The Foxes’ forecheck clicks into place. Torres forces a turnover along the half wall, and Dalton finds the loose puck and rifles a shot off the pads. The rebound bounces right back to Torres, who buries it top shelf.
The crowd erupts, towels spinning like confetti under the lights. The sound rolls through the bench like thunder, and I can’t stop smiling.
Midway through the period, the Forges answer back on a power play—clean shot, glove side, through traffic—but it only makes the next shift burn hotter. Declan rallies the line, a quick tap of sticks and a low, focused “reset.” They push back immediately, pinning the Forges in their zone until the period ends.
But it’s the third period that seals it. Declan picks off a pass at center ice, cuts wide to open space, and drives the zone. He threads a perfect cross-crease feed to Tyler, who buries the one-timer and blows the roof off the place.
The final buzzer sounds. 3–1.
Game 1 is ours.
The crowd doesn’t just cheer. Theyroar. The bench erupts: sticks clattering, gloves flying, the kind of noise that makes the walls shake.
