She smiled, breathless, and pressed close again, letting the chaos fade behind us. For once, for the first time in a long time, all the tension, the battles, the fear, the fights… they didn’t matter. It was only us, and the culmination of everything we’d worked for.
I held her a little tighter, kissed her again, slow, savoring, feeling the culmination of all our victories, our battles, our stolen moments, and our trust solidified.
For a few perfect minutes, nothing existed but the ice behind us, the screaming crowd fading into white noise, and the warmth, the electricity, the undeniable presence of her in my arms. It was everything I had ever wanted, everything I had ever fought for, and it was finally real.
And I knew, as her lips found mine again, that this was only the beginning.
33
Holly
The arena hummed with a tense electricity, every cheer and gasp vibrating through the stands like a living thing. Game 7, the series final, everything boiled down to this one moment, and my stomach was a knotted coil of tension. I leaned on the railing, feeling like every puck flying at Hunter was going straight through my heart.
The Surge moved like a machine, fast and precise, but the Panthers weren’t giving an inch. Every shot, every collision, every scrape of skate against ice made my pulse spike. I found myself holding my breath when Hunter dropped low, pads out, glove snapping over a puck that could have meant disaster if he missed. And he didn’t. The puck slammed against his chest, rattled, but he smothered it. My chest unclenched, only to tighten again as the Panthers pressed forward immediately.
“Boyfriend’s looking good out there, PR!” Tucker’s voice carried over from the bench, teasing, but I didn’t even have time to smile.
Grayson skated past, nodding at me with that brief smirk, a silent acknowledgment that he knew how nerve-wracking this was. I shot back a quick grin, letting the tension slip out in a flicker, but my eyes were glued to Hunter.
Every goal attempt they had, he seemed to anticipate it before iteven happened. A perfectly timed glove save here, a rapid pad stop there, a dive to smother a puck at the last second. The crowd roared, and I felt it vibrate through the rinkside boards, right through me, straight to my chest. I could see him flinch at the cheers, aware of every eye on him, but focused beyond anything else.
First OT, and the energy didn’t let up. The clock seemed irrelevant. The seconds stretched, every pause taut with the threat of sudden death. Hunter was a fortress. A forward spun toward the net, but he was there, glove raised. The puck skittered off his pad, away from the crease.
“Yes!” I whispered, ducking my head, relief flooding me, but the tension didn’t ease. It never did.
I caught a glance of Mason giving a fist pump on the bench, his grin wild, and even Tucker, trying not to jump up, looked half relieved, half exhausted. I couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like from where they were sitting. My nerves were shot, good and solid.
Second OT hit, and the pace was brutal. The players were visibly tired, movements more labored, but Hunter was electric, eyes sharp, body coiled, every save precise, every reaction perfect. A slap shot came barreling toward the top corner, a perfect arc. He leapt, glove flashing, and I could feel the roar of the arena in my teeth as the puck bounced harmlessly off his pad and out. I had to resist the urge to clap against the glass, to yell, to throw myself forward.
Somehow, in between saves, he caught my eye, a quick flick, a fraction of a second, and I saw the tension, the weight of responsibility he carried for the team, for the game, for every hope resting on this ice. I wanted to tell him, to remind him he wasn’t alone, that I was there, but I stayed put, letting my presence speak in ways words couldn’t.
“You really care about him. I can tell.” His mom smiled at me, picking a quiet moment to turn her gaze from the ice.
I didn’t know what to say, except, “I’m in love with your son.”
Then I burst out laughing, and she joined, although there was a hint of sadness in her eyes. “I hope he lets us make it up to him.Missing so much. And I can’t thank you enough for that email. For talking sense into my head.”
“You don’t have to explain,” I said, giving her shoulder a squeeze. “You had your reasons, and you’re here now. That’s what matters.”
By the third OT, every muscle in my body screamed. My hands were pale from gripping the railing. My throat was hoarse from yelling encouragement to the Surge and booing Florida. The Panthers were relentless, desperation baked into every attack. Hunter barely flinched, but I saw the strain in his eyes, the almost imperceptible tightening around his jaw. I could almost feel his heartbeat from here.
I pressed my hand to the glass, fingers trembling, and muttered, “Come on, Hunter. Come on.”
He was getting tired. I could spot the fatigue from here.
Then it happened. A breakaway, a perfect, lightning-quick shot from the edge of the circle. Hunter lunged, glove snapping up, but it grazed the puck instead of stopping it, and it slid past him with agonizing slowness. A disc caught in slow motion. Suspended outside of time and space. Nobody in the arena dared to breathe. Or blink.
The net swallowed it, and a stunned silence dropped over us. My heart plummeted, stomach hollow, and the roar that followed was a hurricane of heartbreak and awe.
The Surge players skated back slowly, disbelief etched across every face. Hunter stayed at the crease for a breath longer, staring at the puck in the net as if willing it out. I felt my own throat tighten, lips parting, wanting to tell him it wasn’t his fault. Wanting to give him a quick kiss, a reminder that I was here, that I saw his efforts and they were good enough.
I leaned forward, practically pressing myself against the boards. As he skated back toward the bench, jaw clenched, shoulders stiff, I met him halfway, leaning over to press my lips to his cheek quickly.
“You did amazing,” I whispered, just enough for him to hear over the chaos. “I’m proud of you. Every single save—amazing.”
He didn’t say anything. Just a stiff nod, a flash of emotion crossing his face that almost made me break apart, then he turned away, sinking onto the bench, helmet off, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
The rest of the guys were just as quiet. Numb. Coach McAvoy didn’t have any words to lift them out of it, either.
