Declan’s mobbed at center ice, helmet off, grinning as teammates pull him into the celebration. I catch his eyes just once through the chaos. He doesn’t say anything, just lifts a glove to his heart and taps twice.
A subtlewe did it.
Around me, the medical team starts packing up, but I stay a beat longer, letting the sound wash over me—the crowd, the music, the echo of everything it took to get here.
When I finally turn toward the tunnel, I press a hand against my stomach again, whispering through the noise, “They’re going to have one hell of a story someday.”
I can feel it. Momentum, not just for him or the team, but for us.
By the time the last fans clear out, the arena smells like ice, sweat, and celebration. Trainers are double-checking gear bags, and the roar has faded to a steady buzz in my ears.
Declan’s still doing media when I duck into the corridor, exhaustion and pride tangling somewhere behind my ribs. My phone buzzes.
Declan:Home soon. If you’re still coming over, don’t wait up if you’re wiped.
I smile, typing back:Wouldn’t dream of it. Proud of you, Captain.
He sends one more:Couldn’t have done any of this without you, Sunshine.
The screen blurs for a second before I tuck it away, hand drifting instinctively to my stomach.
“We did it,” I whisper to no one, to everyone.
Outside, snow flurries dust the parking lot under the arena lights, soft and bright. I tilt my face toward the cold, draw in a breath that feels brand-new.
And somewhere between the win, the team, and the two tiny heartbeats waiting quietly for their turn, hope feels unstoppable.
Chapter Forty-Four
DECLAN
The sound hits like contact. Clean. Full-body.
Game 2 of the Final. The towels are spinning, the crowd’s a living thing, and I can feel it vibrating up through the ice.
A blur of color in the stands. It’s Sophie between Erin and Maya, their faces painted blue and silver, pounding the glass when we skate by. She catches my eye and grins so big it damn near splits me open.
The puck drops.
And just like that, the world narrows.
It never gets old. The scrape of my edges digging in, the whip of cold air when I pivot, the flash of white ice under floodlights.
Tyler wins a battle on the half wall and chips it back. I cut across, take the puck in stride, and fire low through traffic. It hits a pad, the rebound pops loose, and he’s there to bury it before the goalie can recover.
The noise detonates: sticks banging, helmets clattering, voices swallowed by the chaos. My lungs are burning, but it feels good. Earned.
Next shift, I’m back on the draw. Drop my shoulder, lean into it, win it clean. That deep thud of contact feels perfect. Steady, certain.
The Forges push hard with fast transitions and crease pressure, but my body moves before my brain catches up. Stick down. Angles tight. I take a shot off my shin pad, kick it clear, pivot hard, and send it up ice.
The whistle blows late—too late—and the ref’s arm goes up for interference on Dalton. I’m already skating toward him, breath sharp in my chest.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, pointing toward the crease. “He was battling for position, not interfering.”
The ref just shakes his head, already moving toward the box. I skate backward, jaw tight, keeping my tone measured but firm.“Call it both ways, then. You’re missing half of what they’re doing down low.”
Behind me, the bench erupts: helmets banging, Dalton shaking his head.
