"That's my boys!" Emma yells.
The game gets rougher as the first period goes on. Bodies flying, hits that echo through the arena, the kind of physical play that makes you wince. Jackson takes a hit along the boards that looks like it hurts, but he pops right back up, barking orders at his linemates.
The second period starts, and the other team comes out aggressively. They tie it up three minutes in on a power play goal. The momentum shifts, and suddenly the Wolves are on their heels, defending more than attacking.
Jackson changes that.
He steals the puck at center ice, breaks toward the net with a defenseman draped all over him. The guy's hooking, holding, doing everything he can to slow Jackson down, but it doesn't matter. Jackson somehow gets the shot off between his legs, a move so quick I almost miss it.
The puck goes five-hole, and the goal horn blares.
The crowd is deafening. Jackson's teammates mob him at the bench, gloves hitting helmets, everyone celebrating. He's grinning, that rare, genuine smile that makes my chest tight.
"Uncle Jacky!" Ethan's bouncing in Emma's arms. "Goal! Goal!"
The game stays tight through the rest of the second period. Chippy, physical, the kind of hockey where every shift matters. Jackson takes another hit, this one from behind into the boards, and stays down for a second too long.
My heart stops.
But he gets up, shakes it off, and keeps playing. The cutabove his eye is still bleeding, dripping down the side of his face, but he doesn't leave the ice.
The third period is a battle. The other team ties it up again with ten minutes left, and the arena's tense, everyone on edge. The teams trade chances, both goalies making highlight-reel saves.
Five minutes left, and Jackson wins a face-off, sending the puck back to their defenseman. They work it around, patient, looking for the opening. Jackson's calling for it, stick on the ice, positioned perfectly at the hash marks.
The defenseman sends it his way. Jackson shoots, but the goalie saves it. The puck comes back out, and Jackson goes after it, battling through a hard shove to his back to stay in position.
Chase breaks free on the other side. Jackson sees it, fires a pass across two zones through three sticks. Chase is alone in front of the net.
He scores.
Game over. Wolves win.
The building shakes with noise. I'm screaming along with everyone else, caught up in the moment, the energy infectious. Emma's crying happy tears, hugging me and Ethan both.
"That's my husband!" she yells.
Post-game, we wait by the family entrance. Other wives and girlfriends filter past, kids running around. Ethan's asleep in Emma's arms, exhausted from the excitement.
The players start coming out. Chase first, hair still damp, grinning ear to ear. He kisses Emma, ruffles Ethan's hair, and high-fives me.
"Did you see that pass?" he's saying. "Jackson threaded it perfectly."
Jackson emerges five minutes later, still in his suit. The players always dress up for home games. Dark gray, crisp white shirt, no tie. His hair's damp, pushed back from his face. The cutabove his eyebrow has been cleaned up, but there's a butterfly bandage holding it together.
His eyes find mine.
"You came," he says.
"Emma dragged me. But yeah. You were good."
"Good?" Chase laughs. "Cap was on fire tonight. That assist was disgusting."
"It was a pass," Jackson says, but he's smiling.
We drive home in two cars: Emma and Chase with a sleeping Ethan in one, Jackson and me in the other.
The silence is comfortable. Jackson's still riding the high from the win, fingers tapping the steering wheel to some internal rhythm.
