Done.
The horn splits the air. Sticks slam against the boards, gloves flying, Torres yelling my name. I grin so hard it hurts.
Up three games. One more, and the Cup’s ours.
Sweat stings my eyes, breath burning in my chest, the sound of the crowd crashing like surf.
The boys pile in, the noise deafening, and all I can think is:I’m back. Really back.
When the chaos settles, I glance toward the bench. Charlotte’s there, headset off, watching me. There’s pride in her smile, but something else too—something quiet, like she knows exactly what this means.
And for the first time in a long while, it’s more than just hockey.
Every stride, every play—it’s for something bigger waiting off the ice.
For her. For the life we’re building. For all of it.
And damn if that doesn’t make me feel unstoppable.
Chapter Forty-Seven
CHARLOTTE
The next night, the air inside the arena thrums like it’s alive.
Same city. Same opponents. But everything feels different.
The Stanley Cup is in the building, and everyone knows it. The Forges’ crowd is a living, breathing thing, feeding on noise and tension. I can feel it vibrating through the concrete under my shoes.
I check my tablet one last time. Treatment priorities, emergency protocols, last-minute updates. Everything’s in order. The staff moves with a kind of controlled urgency, that sharp focus that only happens when a whole season narrows down to sixty minutes.
Declan’s at the far end of the ice during warmups, visor tilted, stride easy and precise. He looks like every inch the captain he is. Focused. Locked in. If I were on the other bench, I’d be nervous.
Not long ago, he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Tonight, he looks like the one the world has to keep up with.
I exhale, steady my tablet, and focus on my notes. Routine keeps my head where it needs to be.
But this isn’t just another game.
One more win, and it’s everything he fought through to get back here. Ten weeks of rehab—now he’s leading them toward history.
I double-check the emergency kit, adjust the earpiece in my headset, and take my place in the bench area as the players line up in the tunnel.
Declan looks unshakable tonight.
The anthem barely fades before the puck drops, and the noise hits like a wall.
The Forges’ fans are on their feet, pounding the glass, trying to shake the ice itself. It doesn’t work. The Foxes are locked in right away.
My eyes dart from the ice to the next line at the boards. It’s part habit, part survival. You have to stay calm when everyone else is buzzing with adrenaline.
Declan is out for the opening draw. His edges bite clean, the kind of sharp that only happens when a player’s body and mind are finally in sync. Every pivot looks effortless.
He wins a battle on the half wall, chips the puck deep, and drives straight to the net. The boards boom behind him. Torres picks it up and fires a shot the goalie smothers, but it doesn’t matter. The tone’s set.
He’s playing like the ice belongs to him again.
When he takes a hit near center ice, my chest tightens on instinct. It’s hard not to react. The contact is heavy, glass-shaking, but he bounces up before anyone can even react. He doesn’t look over. He doesn’t need to. That’s how I know he’s fine.
