3–1.
My headset slips to my shoulders as I press a hand over my mouth. The roar hits like a wave, and suddenly I’m on my feet, laughing and crying at the same time.
Players pour over the boards, helmets coming off, gloves tossed skyward. Everyone surges around me, voices cracking, laughter spilling over the noise.
Declan’s in the middle of it all—arms raised, smile so wide it looks like it might break him open. Torres tackles him first, then Tyler, then half the team. The ice disappears under a pile of navy and silver.
The handshake line follows—quick, respectful, heavy with everything this season cost. Then the officials step aside, and the Cup comes out—silver and unreal under the lights.
I press my hand to my chest without thinking, trying to steady something that won’t.
When he looks toward the bench, our eyes meet through the chaos.
For a second, it’s just us. No cameras, no crowd, no noise. Just that look. That knowing.
When they bring him the Cup, he takes it with steady hands. His head bows for half a heartbeat, and then he lifts it high. The arena erupts.
But all I see is him.
The man I get to go home to.
The celebration rolls across the ice in waves: players yelling, laughing, crying. Gloves, helmets, and sticks are scattered like debris from some glorious wreck. Reporters crowd the glass, flashes bursting like fireworks.
We’re not supposed to step onto the ice right away. The trainers and I hang back, waiting until the handshake line clears. But when the last Forges skates off, the noise shifts. It’s not chaos anymore. It’s joy with direction.
Declan’s still at center ice, arms around Torres and Tyler, the Cup balanced above their heads. The weight of it doesn’t look like much now—not compared to everything it took to get here.
When he finally lowers it, he turns and spots me.
For a second, the noise falls away. He lifts a hand, motioning me forward.
One of the assistant trainers nudges my arm with a grin. “Go on. He’s waiting for you.”
I step onto the ice. Players cheer, the cameras swing my way, but none of it lands. My eyes find only him.
He meets me halfway—helmet gone, hair damp, cheeks flushed, and the biggest damn smile I’ve ever seen.
“You did it,” I say, breathless even though I’m not the one who played.
He shakes his head, voice rough. “Wedid.”
Before I can answer, he reaches for me. One hand slides to the back of my neck, the other still clutches his gloves. He kisses me, and it’s probably caught by every camera in the arena, but I don’t care.
The place goes wild.
The team’s still celebrating around us. Torres skates by with the Cup over his head, and Tyler shouts, “This is how dynasties start!”
Declan glances toward the crowd, toward the sea of silver towels and open mouths singing victory songs, then back at me.
The flashbulbs keep going, the music surges, and the Cup makes another lap around the ice, but for a heartbeat, everything’s still.
Just him. Just us. Just everything we fought for.
Chapter Forty-Eight
DECLAN
The house finally feels still.
