I followed him to the door anyway, because of course I did. Because there was no version of this where I just stayed still.
He paused, hand on the handle, looking back at me like he was committing something to memory.
“I’ll see you there,” I said.
And this time, when he nodded, it wasn’t weighed down by doubt.
*
I pressed my hands to the railing, leaning as far forward as I could without toppling over. The ice below was a blur of gold and navy, Surge jerseys slashing across the rink, sticks snapping, skates squealing. My heart was a fist in my chest. I barely breathed.
Aiden was out there. My Aiden. My pulse staggered whenever he got near the puck. And then he did, he took it hard down the right wing, weaving past a Colorado defenseman, a clean cut toward the crease. I flinched as the Avalanche player leaned into him, shoulder-first. The hit was brutal. Aiden wobbled but didn’t go down, skating out of it with that stubborn tilt of his chin. My breath caught anyway.
The first period was chaos. The puck ricocheted off the boards, bounced off sticks, and then—bam—Aiden sent it across to Grayson in the slot. Grayson’s slap shot rang off the post. The crowd gasped. I slapped my palm to my mouth. The puck clattered free. Landon swooped in, stick flicking, but the Avalanche goalie had it covered.
The clock ticked mercilessly. Surge were scrappy but sharp; their chemistry, honed all season, was like watching a living organism. Aiden was in the thick of it, taking hits, feeding passes, skating into angles only he could see. And every time a defender swung at him, my stomach dropped.
They weren’t giving him a second to think. Avalanche hit hard too, checking Surge into the boards, driving the puck deep into the corner, forcing turnovers. I could hear Coach’s voice cutting through the roar occasionally. “Get it up! Get it out! Eyes on the puck, boys!”
Score after the first period: Surge 1, Avalanche 1. Grayson had tied it just before the buzzer, a clean wrist shot through traffic that made the entire crowd erupt. I cheered so hard my voice was hoarse by the time the period ended.
The bench was chaos. Players panting, towels over shoulders, sticks clattering. And then I heard him through the noise. Mason still on crutches in the players’ box.
“Aiden,” he said, voice rough but steady. “I’m sorry for being an ass. Really. You… you deserved to be here all along. Happy someone like you could step into my spot.”
Aiden’s hand went up, and they bumped fists, a short acknowledgement of a shared goal, and I swear the world tilted a little. He deserved this. He had worked for this. And here was Mason finally acknowledging it. I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes.
The second period opened with Surge coming at it like a storm. Aiden intercepted a cross-ice pass from Colorado, spun, and fed Landon in the slot. Landon’s wrist shot rang against the crossbar. The crowd groaned, and I leaned forward so far I thought I’d fall onto the ice. But Aiden, undeterred, skated hard, forcing a turnover in the neutral zone. He lifted a long pass to Grayson, who was cutting down the left wing, then dumped it back to Aiden in the slot. The Avalanche goalie slid just in time to block it, but the crowd’s roar rattled my chest.
The physicality was insane. Hits that would have broken lesser men were shrugged off. Grayson got leveled along the boards by a late hit; Landon took a hard shoulder to the chest near the blue line. Players shouted, gloves flying, sticks swinging for leverage, calling lines for passing. And through it all, Aiden stayed in the thick of it, ducking checks, intercepting passes, skating through traffic like a man possessed.
“Push! Push, boys!” Coach’s voice cracked over the uproar. “This is our game!”
And they answered. Surge were everywhere. Pressure on the puck, fights along the boards, slap shots, rebounds. One Avalanche defenseman collided with Tucker, sending them both sliding into the boards. My hands flew to my face. The puck popped free, Aiden swooped in, and he barely missed a one-timer shot into the net. I leapt to my feet for nothing because the score was still 1-1.
Every second after that felt like inches. Aiden’s hair plastered to his forehead, sweat dripping down his temples. His skates carved grooves into the ice as he skated circles around defenders. Avalanche weren’t making it easy. They were brutal, fast, unrelenting. Hits into the boards made the glass shiver. Fans were on their feet, screaming, slapping seats, waving banners, chanting names.
Then the buzzer. Second period was over and done with. Surge huddled on the bench, panting, but alive. Aiden leaned against the boards, helmet off, wiping sweat from his brow. He caught my eye where I sat just behind the box. My stomach lurched. He gave a little tilt of his head, a flicker of a grin. I cheered, louder than anyone around me, my chest feeling like it would burst.
Mason, leaning heavily on the crutches, murmured again: “You’re the real deal, Aiden. Don’t forget that.”
Aiden nodded, gripping his stick, fist-clenched. The rest of the team rallied around him, shoulders slamming, sticks knocking. I could see the fire lighting up in his eyes. The Surge weren’t done. Not by a long shot.
And I wasn’t either. I was standing, screaming, hoarse and raw, caught in the electric tension of it all, hearts threading through every pass, hit, and shot. My hands shook with adrenaline, with worry, with awe.
Game 6 wasn’t over yet. Not by far.
And I knew, deep down, that every second of this night—the hits, the chaos, the roar of the crowd—was shaping up to be the kind of hockey I’d never forget.
Because Surge were about to fight for everything.
And Aiden was right there, center stage.
The third period opened like a cannon blast. Surge poured out of the tunnel, sticks high, gloves slapping, skates carving ice like knives. The Avalanche weren’t backing down. They met every attack with brute force, body checks, and aggressive stick work. Every time Aiden got near the puck, I flinched. A slap shot whistled past his shoulder; he twisted mid-air, deflecting it just enough to keep it alive.
Coach’s voice cut through the crowd’s roar, rough and commanding: “Control it! Eyes up! Protect each other!”
I could hear Grayson calling out lines, pushing Aiden to move, to feed, to skate angles he’d barely had a moment to think about. And somehow, in the chaos, Aiden responded. He glided across the slot, intercepted a dump-in, and shot it at the net, forcing the goalie into a sprawling save. Avalanche pounced immediately after; a heavy hit sent Tucker sliding across the ice, skidding into the boards. I winced, unable to get used to the violence of it all. Aiden was there in an instant, shoving himself into the fray, stick and body poised, never backing down.
