A little later, we’re taxiing out. The cabin hums with quiet energy: low voices, shuffling cards, the faint beat of someone’s music bleeding through earbuds.
A few rows back, she’s by the window now, hair pulled up, team polo, tablet balanced on her lap. She glances up just as I do and gives me that subtle smile.
I text:Still a little unreal, huh?
Her reply comes almost right away:It is, but in the best way.
I pocket the phone, lean back as the engines spool higher. Through the window, the mountains fade behind us, sunlight catching on the wing.
New York next.
Games 3 and 4. Noise, cameras, pressure.
And I’m ready for it.
By the next night, New York hums like it’s alive: horns, sirens, camera flashes bouncing off wet pavement as the bus rolls through the tunnel beneath the arena. I can feel it vibrating in my chest before I even stand up.
The locker room is bright and loud, but focused. Sticks clicking. Velcro tearing. Tape stretching tight. The air smells like sweat,coffee, and adrenaline. Every sound is familiar, but sharper tonight.
I pull on my jersey, fingers brushing over the C stitched to the chest. The fabric feels heavier somehow, like it remembers everything I had to do to get back here.
When we hit the tunnel, the roar of the crowd slams into us—low, deep, relentless. My pulse syncs to it.
“Let’s go, boys!” I shout over the noise, sharp and sure. Tyler answers with a stick tap, Torres grins, and we step into the light.
During warmups, the first glide cuts smooth and easy. The ice feels fast tonight, sharp under my edges—exactly how it should.
Charlotte’s in the bench area, headset on, tablet tucked under her arm. Her eyes find me when I circle past. The noise fades and my pulse evens. I nod, and she gives me a small, certain smile.
The anthem ends. The puck drops.
The first contact comes fast—a clean shoulder at the blue line that rattles through my chest and wakes up every nerve I’ve got. The crowd howls, but I just focus on my skates carving hard into ice.
I catch a rimmed puck, turn off the half wall, and thread it through traffic to Torres. He redirects it low, and the rebound pops out front. Tyler’s there. One touch, top shelf.
1–0.
Our bench explodes. My vision tunnels for a second in pure relief.
The next shift, I’m killing a penalty. Heart pounding, legs burning, every muscle humming with that playoff edge.
Their captain tries to cut around me on the rush. I get a stick on the puck, chip it up ice, and it dies perfectly along the boards for Torres to chase. The roar from our end sounds like home.
By the second period, everything blurs into rhythm. Pass, pivot, hit, recover. My body’s doing what it’s supposed to: no hesitation, no second-guessing. Every stride feels earned.
Then a collision.
Their winger drives me hard into the glass, shoulder first. The hit rattles through my ribs, knocks the breath out for half a second, then burns off in the rush of adrenaline. I stay on my edge, shove back, keep the play alive.
Next shift, I dig a puck off the boards and drive the net. The goalie kicks the rebound out, but I’m already pivoting, sliding it backdoor for Tyler again. It hits his tape, then the back of the net.
2–1.
The crowd rains boos. I drink them in.
The third drags. Tight play, hard defense, every breath sharp. Their coach pulls the goalie with a minute left. I take the draw in our zone, tie up the center, kick the puck loose, and backhand it down the ice. It slides, slow and clean, until it kisses the empty net.
3–1.
