When I stretch back upright, my knees creak, and my lungs expand all at once. I know better than to believe in magic, but I believe in muscle memory, in the superstition of routine. In carving grooves to hold myself steady.
And tonight, I need them more than usual. Not just because it’s win or go home, but because everything’s different now.
It’s been two weeks since she stood in front of me, shaking and trying to be brave, and said the words that cracked my fucking world open.
I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
This is game six on the road. We’ve worked so hard to claw our way into the Western Conference division championship, but Texas is up 3–2, and if we lose tonight, our run at the Cup is over.
I stretch my shoulders back and settle into the net. The crowd is already loud with their cowbells and jeering, and chants I stopped trying to understand three games ago. I block it out. Narrow the world down to the blue paint in front of me, the posts on either side.
My eyes scan the ice. Eli’s jaw is tight at the faceoff circle, and Chase bounces on his skates behind him, tapping his stick twice against the ice like a war drum. Viktor’s already mouthing something in Swedish at the winger opposite him. Probably a curse.
The puck drops, and the first period is fast. Texas presses early, trying to rattle me, but I hold. I track clean, my glove is sharp, and my lateral movement’s as tight as it’s been since I came back.
It’s a good period. It’s agreatperiod. Zeroes on the board, just the way I like it.
But the second is harder. They’re playing dirtier now, just like they always do. Stick taps to my pads, elbows in the slot.
I take a shoulder to the helmet midway through, with a sharp jolt of contact and a dull throb that blooms at the base of my skull. I stumble and snap the rebound into my glove, but the ref doesn’t call the penalty.
And all hell breaks loose.
“You don’t touch myfucking goalie!” Chase roars, gloves already sailing through the air.
He launches toward the winger who hit me with murder in his eyes, and it takes two guys to hold him back. Jake grabs him around the chest, and Viktor cuts him off at the blue line.
“Chase!Not now.Not now,” Jake grits out, arms locked tight.
Logan and Eli are already at the ref, full throttle and eyes blazing.
“You tellin’ me that was nothing? That’s fucking head contact!”
“You wanna try that again? Where’s the call?”
The ref shrugs. Should’ve been a five-minute major. Should’ve been a power play. Instead, they call roughing on Chaseandthe Dallas winger, and we end up with matching penalties.
The faceoff happens like I didn’t just take a blindside shoulder to the fucking head, and we don’t convert or capitalize. The rage sits low in my chest, thick and useless.
I can’t shout or swing, though. I just stand there in the crease, jaw locked behind my cage, and let it boil.
But I feel it behind me. Around me. In the way Chase paces the bench like a caged animal. In the way Logan slams the boards after his next shift, and how Eli doesn’t even look at me—because his eyes are on the guy who hit me, lining up the retribution.
They saw it, and they won’t forget it, because they always,alwayshave my back.
By the time the buzzer sounds, I’ve stopped twenty-three shots, and it’s still zero-zero.
Third period doesn’t let up. It’s like getting dragged behind a truck through gravel—every clearance a test and a prayer in one. But I fuckinghold.
We just can’t find the back of their net. Logan hits the crossbar with six minutes left, and Jake gets hauled down on a breakaway, but there’s no call. I think Chase actually chews through his mouthguard in rage.
And still, I hold.
It’s one of the cleanest games I’ve played since I’ve been back, but it’s one of the hardest, too. And with every glove save, every pad stack, every groan of frustration from the Texas fans, I feel that old flicker of pride burn through my ribs.
When regulation ends, we’re still scoreless. Overtime is always cruel, and this one’s no exception.
I stretch my neck and roll my shoulders. I should be thinking about the crease, about angles and rebounds. But my head flashes back to her sitting warm against me, that soft break in her voice when she told me she wanted to keep the baby.
