I.H.H.
C.P.
Didn’t stitch anything into my glove for two decades due to superstition and mostly because nothing ever felt permanent enough.
But now, I’ve got initials in my catcher. A daughter in the stands. And the woman I’d cross continents for, sitting beside her with a ridiculous foam finger and bags under her eyes from working two night shifts this week and still making it to every game.
My girls.
They’re why I’m here, and why I’m retiring after this. Carina has her whole career ahead of her, and I want to support her through that. I want time with my daughter. I just want to be with them.
I’ve spent my whole life defending the crease, fighting for shutouts, and holding the goddamn line.
But this is it; my last stand.
Only a few people know. The front office, Coach Benson, and the boys in the locker room. But I asked them to keep it quiet—just until tonight’s done. Just until I’ve earned the right to walk away on my own fucking terms.
The ref waves us out, and the door slams open. I skate into the light, and the crowd explodes again. It’s deafening and drowning.
I don’t look toward the family seats, not yet. If I see them now, I’ll come undone, and I need every molecule of focus for what’s next.
Chase skates past me on his way to the circle and taps the back of my pad once, just behind the ankle. Jake mutters somethingunder his breath as he plants himself at center. Logan’s nose is bleeding again, and he doesn’t even notice.
The puck drops, and we’re on.
I press forward into my stance, legs set wide and catcher open. My stick angles down, blade flush against the paint, glove wide and ready. The noise of the crowd thins out into static as the Dragons gain possession, cycling fast through the neutral zone.
They want this. I can see it in the way their top line bears down. It’s the same core team that broke us in Game Six last season. The same fuckers who took my knee out the season before that.
Their winger tears down the right side and snaps a pass across the slot. I track it with my head low and eyes locked. My chest tightens, but my body knows this. Knows the angles, the rush, the split-second blur of black rubber screaming toward the net.
I drop into butterfly and seal the ice. Pads clatter, and there’s a body in front of me—Logan or a Dragon, I don’t know—but I see the shot, and my glove goes up to snag it clean.
Whistle.
The crowd surges behind me, a wall of noise rising through the rafters, but all I hear is my breath inside the mask.
I skate a slow half-circle around the crease and carve a fresh line into the paint with the heel of my blade, just enough to feel it. I’ve been drawing those lines since I was fifteen—back when I needed something to ground me, to make the chaos feel like mine.
My hand flexes inside the glove, feeling the embroidery along the inside edge.
I had it stitched in the second we agreed on her name, and now here they are, cradled in my hands. Like they always will be.
Dallas comes again, harder this time. I track them all the way in and make the glove, but they’re relentless, and I know it.
But not tonight. Not with her in the stands, not with our daughter watching. Not with their initials stitched into me.
They come at me again, piling into the zone with ruthless precision. The puck bounces off the end boards and wraps around fast, and I move with it, shuffling right and hugging the post as their center looks for a hole.
He fires low, and I kick it out with my toe and brace for the rebound, but Logan clears the crease, shouldering the forward off balance just long enough for Jake to scoop it and break up ice.
I shoutGOonce, and then I’m tracking the action.
Viktor takes the pass at center and hauls ass down the wing, blood still drying under his nose from a fight earlier. He doesn’t pass or fake, he drives hard to the net like he’s got fucking fire under his skates.
The Dragons’ goalie drops too early.
Viktor sees it and roofs it.
