Sudden death sat heavy on my chest as we lined up. One mistake would end everything. One play would finish a season of heartbreak.
Coach leaned in. “Short shifts. Simple plays. And for the love of all that is holy, all the heart you boys can muster.”
I pushed off for my first OT shift and nearly stumbled. My legs protested and my shoulder howled, but I found my stride anyway.
The Oilers controlled early. Shot from the slot. Hunter stopped it. Rebound. I chopped it clear and chased it myself, refusing to coast. Mason joined me, took the puck, gained the zone. He circled back, waiting for help. I slid into the high slot, stick ready, vision narrowing to puck and space.
Pass came. I hesitated, pain flaring, then snapped a wrist shot anyway. Their goalie kicked it aside. Landon crashed the crease, jabbing. Whistle blew.
Our bench buzzed with an energy I could feel through the boards. Guys leaned over the rail, shouting encouragement that blurred into one steady force.
Next shift, Oilers nearly ended it. Breakaway off a bad change. Hunter came out big, stacked the pads, and stoned him. I slammed my stick on the ice in thanks, shoulder screaming in protest.
Clock ticked down. The seconds felt carved out of stone.
With under a minute left, we forced a turnover in neutral ice. Shawn chipped it deep. I chased, dug it free along the wall with my skates, then fed it back to Grayson pinching hard.
“Middle!” Mason yelled.
Grayson sent it low. Mason cut across the crease, dragging two defenders with him. The puck squirted loose behind the net.
I was there without remembering how I got there.
I scooped it onto my blade and wrapped it around the post before my body could argue.
Red light.
For a heartbeat, nothing registered. Then the sound hit. A wall of noise that lifted me off my skates as bodies slammed into me from every side. Helmets knocked. Gloves grabbed. I laughed and shouted and cried all at once.
The Stanley Cup.The fucking Stanley Cup.
Guys poured off the bench. Coach was there, eyes wet, hauling me into a crushing hug before shoving me toward the boards.
“Go,” he said, voice breaking. “Go get her, you big goon.”
I didn’t look anywhere else. Reese stood just beyond the gate, hands over her mouth, tears streaking down her cheeks.
I crossed the ice on legs that barely worked. She ran the last few steps and collided with me, arms locked around my neck. I held her with my good arm and didn’t let go.
“We did it,” I said into her hair.
“We did,” she said, kissing me hard, again and again, salt and joy and relief all mixed together.
Around us, the team gathered, laughing, crying, shouting. The Cup came out, silver catching the lights, heavy and real and finally ours.
I pressed my forehead against hers, then kissed her once more as the roar rolled on.
We were champions.
Epilogue
Reese
Ten Years Later
“Charlie, knees,” I called from the grass bank next to the lake. “You’re skating tall again.”
Theo corrected him before our son could even register the note in my voice, gloved hand tapping Charlie’s thigh, gentle and precise.
