I nod once, then pass Ivy carefully back to Carina.
Jake doesn’t say anything, just holds it out, that same wild grin on his face I’ve seen since he was a rookie with too-big skates and something to prove.
I lift it high to a deafening roar.
Twenty years.
Fourteen seasons with the Storm. Dozens of cracked ribs, concussions, and nights wondering if I’d ever make it back.
And now, I’ve got silver in my hands again and the sound of my daughter laughing in my ears.
I’ve played more games than I can count, fought harder than I probably should’ve, stayed longer than most said I would.
But this is the ending I chose, on my terms.
I lower the Cup and crouch, curling my hands around the wide, gleaming rim. Carina’s already stepping closer, smiling as I nod toward Ivy at her chest.
She unclips the harness, and Ivy’s feet kick excitedly as I lift her up and nestle her inside the Stanley Cup.
With a delighted squeal that cuts straight through me, her hand grabs the side, and the other flails with victory, like she knows exactly what this means.
“That’s my whole damn heart,” I whisper, throat thick, “sitting in a silver bowl.”
The flashbulbs go off, but all I see is her.
Ivy. My girl.
Or as Carina has taught me, Uri ttal.
She wraps an arm around my waist, and I tug her close with my free hand. She’s shaking a little, too. Lips chapped and mascara smudged, but she’s never looked more beautiful.
The Cup sits between us, our daughter giggling from inside it like the world is hers to command. And maybe it is, because everything that matters is already here, stitched into my catcher, pressed against my chest, and standing at my side.
Coach claps a hand on my shoulder and nods toward the boards. “You wanna tell them?”
I nod, and the rinkside reporter waves me over. I hand Ivy back to Carina and skate forward.
My last interview.
She congratulates me and then asks something about legacy, and I see my opening.
“I’ve spent my whole life protecting the goal,” I say, taking the mic. My eyes flick briefly to the crease, to the carved-up paint and puck marks that built me. “But now I’m ready to step over the line.”
I look over to Carina. She’s got Ivy pressed close again, one hand smoothing her tiny hat back into place, but her eyes are locked on me.
“Those two girls over there? They’re my goal now. That’s my future. They’re my biggest win of all.”
The crowd erupts again, but I barely hear it, because Carina’s lips are moving, and even with the noise, I can hear it.
I love you.
The boys find me after that—soaking me in champagne and full-body tackles on the ice. It’s the chaos I’ve lived for, the sound of glory ringing off the rafters.
But even in the middle of it, I keep glancing back to the edge of the rink. To the woman who never asked me to choose, but who made me want to anyway.
To the daughter who reminds me how to start again.
Eventually, the lights begin to fade, and the ice clears. The Cup is passed from hand to hand, and somewhere in the quiet aftermath, I skate one last slow circle around my crease.
