He gives the noncommittal shrug I’ve seen a hundred times. I turn back toward the bench, the kind of frustrated energy that lights a fuse under the guys instead of draining it.
Tyler slaps my shoulder as I sit. “There he is. Classic Tremayne diplomacy.”
I grin despite myself. “Someone’s got to keep them honest.”
Behind the bench area, Charlotte’s voice is steady—quietly relaying to Dan about a player’s shift load, jotting notes on movement patterns, eyes flicking between the ice and tablet. Calm, focused. Grounding even in chaos.
Back out there, the pace hits a new gear. Dalton threads a hard pass, Torres goes bar down, and the placeeruptsagain.
Rally towels blur into one long storm of motion, a whole city losing its mind.
When the clock finally runs out, we’re up 3–1 again.
I skate toward the bench, unbuckling my chin strap, lungs on fire. Cameras flash, voices crash together, but I find her throughthe chaos. Charlotte—tablet in one hand, smiling that quiet, proud smile that says everything.
I tap my chest once.
Not for the crowd.
For her.
We’ve got this.
The horn still echoes through my ribs when I hit the tunnel.
Game 2 is ours. Two up in the Final. The air in the arena feels electric, buzzing like it can’t calm down.
Inside the room, it’s chaos in the best way. Helmets tossed, gloves on the floor, guys shouting over each other as they peel off gear. Reporters hover at the door, waiting for quotes, but no one’s ready to come down yet.
The smell of sweat, tape, and adrenaline fills the air. Real hockey air.
I unstrap my pads, rolling my shoulders until they crack. I test my knee out of habit, but it feels solid. No hesitation, no pull. Just strength.
Not too long ago, I was in a rehab room wondering if I’d even get to skate during the Playoffs. Now I’m the one leading us in the Final.
When the last interview wraps, Charlotte finds me lacing my shoes on a bench outside the locker room.
“You okay?” she asks, eyes flicking to my leg.
“Better than okay,” I say, grinning. “That one felt right.”
She smiles, a little breathless. “I could tell. You didn’t hold back out there.”
“Feels good to be playing again,” I say.
Her eyes soften. “You earned that.”
She gives me a look that says everything without words. Pride, maybe relief. I nod once, silent agreement, before we both turn back to the noise around us.
The house is quiet when I get home.
Sophie’s at Maya’s for a sleepover, the house dark except for the kitchen light. I grab a bottle of water and lean against the counter, the silence settling around me like a deep exhale.
There’s this stillness that wasn’t here before. The kind that feels like arrival.
My phone buzzes with a text from David.
Dad’s driving down Friday. You and Charlotte in for dinner?
