We score again. And again.
Chicago can’t touch us.
Final score: 5–2.
The crowd is on their feet. Chanting. Celebrating.
The team mobs me on the ice—pounding my back, yelling, congratulating.
“Best game of the season, Kane!”
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Candy Kane is BACK, baby!”
But I’m not listening. I’m scanning the stands.
Section 104.
She’s there. Running down the steps toward the glass. Pushing through people, apologizing, still wearing that ridiculous glittery jersey, her foam horns crooked now.
She reaches the boards. Presses her hands against the plexiglass.
I’m on the other side. Separated by three inches of reinforced plastic and every rule about player-fan interaction.
We stare at each other.
She’s crying. I’m probably crying too, but the helmet hides it.
Her lips move. I can’t hear her through the glass and the crowd noise, but I can read the words:
I’m sorry. I love you.
That’s it.
I’m done with things keeping us apart.
I look at the bench. At Coach Jacobsen who’s watching with raised eyebrows.
Then I climb over the boards.
Not the normal exit. Right over the plexiglass between the bench and the stands, using my stick for leverage.
My teammates are shouting. The crowd is screaming. Security is probably having a heart attack.
I don’t care.
I drop down into the stands—awkward in skates, nearly losing my balance. She’s right there.
I reach for her, but she holds up a hand.
“Wait.” She’s crying and laughing at the same time. “The contract doesn’t end until midnight.”
I stare at her. “Are you serious?”
“The thirty-day period. It’s technically?—”
“Chloe.” I step closer. “It’s midnight somewhere.”
