“You’re a goddamn magician,” Bell tells Sokolov.
“We’re going to the fucking playoffs, boys,” Sokolov hoots.
I take my time exiting the ice, lingering so I’m last in line as the team shuffles back into the locker room. Freddie, Micke, Astrid, and my mother are right where I predicted they’d be—hanging over the bars that separate the corridor from the stands. Micke gives me the most painful high-five of my life as I pass—just before Freddie throws her arms around my neck.
I squeeze her tight, then pull back, looking between her beautiful, tear-filled eyes.
“You guys did it,” she chokes out.
I crush my mouth to hers in a searing kiss, ignoring the hoots and hollers that erupt around us, cupping her face with both hands as I pull away.
Then my gaze slides to the woman next to her; a woman whose face I thought I’d never see at a hockey game, let alone here in Los Angeles. My mother’s never even left Scandinavia.
“Mother,” I say in Swedish, letting go of Freddie.
My mother’s eyes are brimming with tears, too. She dabs at her cheeks with her handkerchief.
“I’m sorry I waited so long,” she mumbles. Her eyes are filled with regret, and I reach out to take her hand.
“It’s okay. I don’t care. You’re here now,” I say. “You got to see me play.”
“Your father would be so proud.” The words are a struggle for her to say—like she’s been fighting them her entire life.
Something inside me soars. “You think so?”
“I know so. He was always so proud of you. I am, too. My Mattias.” She bends down and wraps her arms around my shoulders, and for the first time since I was a child, I feel my mother’s warmth.
“Thank you so much for being here,” I say in her ear, unable to stop the way I’m crying now, too. “It means more than I can say.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” My mother laughs as she pulls away. “This girl wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Freddie perks up, like she knows we’re talking about her.
“Keep her,” my mother adds.
“I plan to,” I reply, amused by the confused look on Freddie’s face. She has no idea what we’re saying. That’s going to have to change.
With a last smile at my mother, I cup Freddie’s cheek, brushing my thumb over the curve of her cheekbone. “See you tonight.”
“Don’t make me wait.”
I smile at her—a real, true smile, from somewhere deep inside—and let go.
No victory has ever felt so great.
Epilogue
Freddie, 2 months later
I’m trying to get some work done on this flight, but I keep watching recaps of last week’s match instead. I pull up the last minutes of the game, where it came down to a shoot-out against the Florida Manatees for the Founders’ Cup final. I can still hardly believe it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the feel of Åsa and Micke’s hands gripping mine, collectively holding our breath as Mattias started down the ice.
Everything moved in slow motion as he handled the puck back and forth between the edges of his stick, his eyes never leaving Florida’s goal. His speed was slow and lazy at first—a total fake out. It worked, because when he exploded to full speed, Florida’s goalie hardly had time to react before the puck was soaring towards him. He lunged left. The puck went right. Spacelytics Center exploded as the Monarchs won their first Founders’ Cup since the late 90s.
I’ve never seen Mattias smile the way he did as his team dogpiled him, all hollers and shouts, before looking our way. Micke, Astrid, and Åsa were shouting, too. Even my mother and sister attended, and somehow neither of them looked tortured to be at a hockey game. My father isn’t showing his face in public much these days, but I wonder if he was watching at home. I just sat there, dazed and beaming, wondering how it was possible to feel so happy.
I followed the rest of the team onto the ice, and Mattias scooped me into his arms, smothering me in one of his too-eager, open-mouthed kisses. I saw Ryan filming, but I couldn’t be bothered to care. There was some gossip at first, but now everyone’s mostly left us alone. Goldfish brains, like Grace said.
“I think I love you,” Mattias told me.
