Waves the sign.
And then she blows me a kiss.
Actually blows me a kiss. In front of eighteen thousand people.
My chest is so tight I can barely breathe.
Derek skates past me, heading for the tunnel. Sees where I’m looking. Sees Chloe in her glittery jersey and ridiculous horns.
He grins. Shakes his head. “Eyes on the puck, Candy.”
I play like I’ve never played before.
Not trying to prove anything. Not performing. Not being perfect.
Just being.
Every blocked shot. Every defensive play. Every split-second decision.
I’m not thinking. I’m just moving. Trusting my body. Trusting my training. Trusting that this—hockey, the ice, the game—is what I was made for.
And knowing that she’s watching.
That she came. That she’s here. That she’s wearing the ridiculous getup and waving a sign like this is game seven.
Cheering for me.
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:
