The buzzer sounds.
We lost. Four-two. Not a blowout, but not close enough to feel like we had a real shot either.
I skate to center ice with my teammates for the handshake line. The other team is gracious in victory. I shake each hand mechanically, my mind somewhere else entirely.
When we break apart, I stand at center ice for a moment. Just stand there, taking it all in. The crowd is sparse—it always is for women's hockey—but I can hear a few people cheering anyway. My dad didn’t come tonight. I told him not to bother. He’s seen enough of my games; this one was not worth the effort. My teammates are already skating toward the bench, but I need this moment.
Four years. Four years of early morning practices and late-night study sessions. When I add it all up, it’s been almost twenty years of bruises. Wins and losses. Two decades of loving this game, even when it didn't love me back.
My eyes sting, but I'm not crying because we lost. I'm crying because it's over. It’s the end of an era. I’m not looking back. I’m looking forward. I have a bright future without hockey, and I’m okay with that.
"Come on, Webb!" one of my teammates calls from the bench.
I skate over, taking my time. Coach gives me a nod when I step off the ice. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't need to. She knows what this means.
In the locker room, the mood is subdued but not devastated. We all knew this was coming. We've known for weeks that playoffs weren't in the cards this year. Still, ending my career on a loss stings in a way I wasn't prepared for.
I strip off my gear slowly. I fold the jersey carefully and set it in my bag, running my fingers over the number one last time.
Teammates come over, offering hugs and congratulations. It feels strange to celebrate the end of something. But that's what this is—an ending.
I shower quickly, letting the hot water wash away the sweat and the ache. When I'm dressed again in jeans and Declan's hoodie that I stole from his room this morning, I grab my bag and head out.
I scan the parking lot and see him. Declan steps forward, carrying a bouquet of white lilies.
And dammit, I start crying. He says nothing and simply pulls me into his arms. I feel ridiculous.
“I know, baby, I know,” he murmurs.
And then I don’t feel so ridiculous.
Chapter Six
DECLAN
Iwake up, and I’m immediately aware of what day it is.
I’m not nervous. Not really. I’m confident. Today is the final championship game.
We’ve dominated the last month. We kicked ass in the playoffs. We made it through regionals.
And today is the day.
Sutton moans and stretches beside me.
I smile and roll over to kiss her.
“Good morning,” she murmurs.
“Good morning.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Calm. That's it. Just calm.”
“Good.”
I take a few minutes to appreciate the calm before the storm. We’re in a hotel in Manhattan. Tonight, we’ll play in Madison Square Garden.
