Top shelf, blocker side. A perfect fucking shot.
The red light flares behind the net, and the horn sounds. The arena erupts.
3–2 Storm.
We’re winning. We’re winning the fucking Cup.
The last few seconds tick down, and I drop into position one last time, heart hammering as Dallas makes one desperate push. They fire from the blue line with three seconds left, but it’s wide. I don’t even have to move.
Buzzer. Game, set, season.
We’ve done it.
I tear off my mask and throw it, gloves flying, stick clattering to the ice.
The boys crash into the boards, and I let out a roar that burns my throat raw as I punch the air with my catcher. I skate forward just far enough to meet them—Jake wrapping me in a half-headlock, Logan jumping on my back like a lunatic, Chase and Eli screaming so loud I think they might pass out.
The world explodes around me—teammates flooding the zone, coaches pounding the glass, fans losing their goddamn minds.
I search the stands, and there they are.
Carina’s crying and laughing simultaneously, Ivy’s strapped to her chest with oversized headphones, blinking wide-eyed under the stadium lights. Carina raises a hand, then presses it flat to her heart, and I swear I can feel it in mine.
I drop to my knees, ice burning through my pads, adrenaline surging so hard I’m shaking.
My last save, my last game. My last win.
They hand the Cup off to Jake first. He kisses the silver like it’s sacred, then lifts it high above his head to the roar of the crowd.
He turns and looks for me, but I shake my head once. Not yet.
Jake nods in understanding and pivots, passing it to Eli next, who hoists it and screams so loud, the rafters shake. Then Chase. Then Logan. Viktor. The rest of the boys.
I wait, gloves off, sweat cooling against my skin. Knees still aching from the third-period push, body screaming from twenty years of this game.
Because first, I want her.
I spot Carina moving near the edge of the rink, just behind the security rope. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s still in scrubs under her Storm jacket—snuck out of the hospital just in time.
And strapped to her chest is Ivy Harriet Hope.
My fucking miracle.
Her eyes find me, huge and dark and curious as I make my way over, carving a slow arc through the chaos.
The crowd parts to let Carina through, and she hands Ivy to me. She blinks up at me, wobbly but alert, her chubby cheeks pink from the cold, her tiny fists curled against the logo on my jersey.
“Hey, bubba,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers. “We did it.”
“You were unbelievable,” Carina says, reaching up to touch my jaw.
“Couldn’t lose with you two in the building.”
She leans in, and I kiss her hard—longer than I should in public, not that I give a damn. Ivy babbles against my chest like she’s cheering along with the crowd.
“Hutch-y! Hutch-y! Hutch-y!”
Jake’s skating toward me now, grinning like a lunatic with the Stanley Cup back in his hands. “You want it, old man?”
