4-3.
They did it. We won!
The feeling that crashes through me defies description. This isn’t the Stanley Cup, isn’t a playoff series, isn’t even a particularly important regular season game. It’s a bunch of kids playinghigh school hockey in a tiny arena that smells like old socks and hopeful dreams.
And somehow it tastes sweeter than any victory I can remember.
No. That’s not quite right.
My eyes find Devin through the chaos of celebrating fans and players heading for the tunnel. She’s on her feet, beaming like we just won Olympic gold, and the truth hits me with the force of a blindside check.
The victory’s sweet, sure. But what’s sweeter is seeing her here, wearing our team colors, choosing to show up when she doesn’t have to. That smile aimed at me like I’m something worth smiling about.
I realize with sudden, perfect clarity that there’s something even better than winning waiting for me. And I’m on my way to get it.
Chapter Fifteen
Devin
The locker room thunders with celebration, ice packs passing through my hands like victory tokens as I check Spencer’s jammed fingers. The kid winces but grins through it, too high on the win to care about pain. Around us, the team hollers and chest-bumps, their energy bouncing off the concrete walls. But it’s Oliver who draws my attention—his joy radiates differently than the others, pure and uncomplicated in a way I haven’t seen since our early days.
Strange how a high school victory lights him up more than any professional win ever did. Back then, each triumph came weighted with the next game’s pressure, the next season’s expectations. I watch him high-five one of the freshmen, remembering nights when he’d stand in similar locker rooms, jaw tight even after dominant performances, already dissecting what went wrong instead of celebrating what went right.
“That was sick!” One of the players shouts, and Oliverlaughs—actually laughs—not the practiced media smile I grew accustomed to, but something genuine that crinkles his eyes.
Five years ago, I’d packed my life into cardboard boxes while he was at practice, each piece of shared history wrapped in newspaper and resentment. Now here he is, looking more like the twenty-five-year-old who’d nervously asked me to dinner after a campus game than the anxiety-ridden professional athlete I’d left behind.
Those post-game celebrations haunt me still. Sprawling parties at teammates’ mansions where Oliver would match everyone drink for drink, then keep going long after they’d crashed. I’d curl up on leather couches that cost more than my car, listening to bass-heavy music shake crystal chandeliers, wondering when exactly we’d lost ourselves. He’d stumble in at dawn, reeking of whiskey and expensive cologne, already talking about tomorrow’s practice.
The partying was armor, I realize now. Each shot, each beer, another layer between him and the crushing weight of expectations. But I’d never said anything, just added each concern to my mental inventory of grievances, letting them simmer until they boiled over into that final, explosive fight.
“Hey.” Oliver appears beside me, chest still heaving from post-game adrenaline.
“Hi.” My weight shifts from foot to foot, caught between professional distance and personal pull. “Congrats.”
He shrugs, but pride flickers across his features. “It wasn’t me.”
“You know it was.” The laugh escapes before I can stop it. “At least part of it was you.”
His grin walks the line between humble and cocky, so perfectly Oliver that my chest tightens. “Jeff and I are heading out for a celebratory drink. Would you like to come?”
The invitation hangs between us, loaded with history. Myhesitation must show because he rushes forward, words tumbling over each other.
“Just a drink or two. It won’t be like how I used to celebrate. Those days are done.”
My bottom lip catches between my teeth. “I was going to say yes anyway... but it’s good to hear you say that. I, uh, need to head home and change first. Is that okay? I won’t be long.”
“Yeah, of course!” His voice cracks with enthusiasm before he clears his throat, reeling it back. “I’ll text you where we go.”
My eyebrow arches. “You have my number?”
Pink spreads across his cheeks, and suddenly he’s that college boy again, confident on ice but fumbling with feelings. “Unless you changed it.”
My head shakes slowly, the admission barely audible. “I didn’t change it.”
His eyes catch the fluorescent lights, sparkling with something I’m not ready to name. “Good.”
I turn to leave, then pivot back. “Hey, who were you waving to at the beginning of the game? You looked spooked.”
