Jacob had been the opposite: electric one night, invisible the next. Six goals in the series, including two multi-point nights that made jaws drop, but also long stretches where he disappeared under the Lynxes’ checking. The inconsistencygnawed at him—Tane could see it in the way Jacob fidgeted during film sessions, the way he chewed his mouthguard until it shredded.
The locker room felt different now. The early swagger was gone. Guys snapped at each other over small things… whose turn it was to bring the music, who left gear in the walkway.
Tremaine had turned the dial to eleven too.
Morning skates became punishment sessions. Video reviews lasted hours. Every mistake was dissected in front of the whole team. No one escaped. Not the rookies, not the veterans, and especially not Tane.
And yet—beneath the tension, beneath the exhaustion—there was something else.
There was a quiet, stubborn belief.
This series would be remembered.
If they won Game 7, it would go down as one of the great see-saw series in league history: blowing a 2–0 lead, clawing back, refusing to fold when the momentum swung hard the other way.
And if they lost… well, no one wanted to finish that sentence.
Tane peeled the ice pack off, rolled the shoulder once and smiled wryly.
He stood, walked to the window, and looked down at the city lights. Somewhere out there, twenty thousand fans were already lining up for tomorrow’s puck drop. Somewhere out there, Antonio Cardini was probably watching the same highlights, calculating odds and leverage.
Tane didn’t care about any of it tonight.
He cared about one thing: getting one more shift.
One more chance to leave everything on the ice.
One more chance to lift Jacob onto his shoulders when the Cup came around for the second time.
He glanced at the clock. 1:12 a.m.
Jacob was asleep in the next room. The door cracked ajar, soft snores drifting through. Tane smiled despite himself. This incredibly young man had been on fire in his debut season, yes, but the real fire was the way he looked at Tane after every shift, like Tane was still the hero from those old TV broadcasts. Like Tane could still do impossible things.
Tomorrow he’d try to live up to Jacob’s expectations.
Tane turned off the TV, flicked on the bedside lamp, and opened his playbook. Not to study systems—he knew them cold—but to remind himself why he still did this.
One game.
One shift at a time.
He closed the book, killed the light, and slipped into bed beside Jacob. His love stirred, mumbled something incoherent, and curled instinctively into Tane’s side.
Tane wrapped his good arm around him.
Whatever happened tomorrow, Tane was determined to make it right for Jacob.
And if the hockey gods were kind, if the bounces went their way, if the shoulder held, if the heart outlasted the body, they would write the ending everyone would remember forever.
Chapter 30
Tane
The series deciding game was every bit as tense and closely fought as the media had predicted. With the home crowd on edge and doing their best to fight their own nerves, Coach Tremaine called a timeout deep into the final third.
“What in all hell do you call this?” Coach Tremaine hollered. “We should be three goals to the good. Our name should be on the fucking trophy! And yet we’re tying? Fuck! Don’t make me smash every God damn stick to prove a point. I want to see you raise that intensity. This is life or death. No. It’s more important than that. You hear me? No second chances. Fucking listen and listen good. Go harder than you’ve ever gone. Even if you’re not doing it for me, then do it for yourselves. And do it for the fans. Do it for those damn fans who stick with you through thick and thin. Fight on that ice! Fire every last bullet in the chamber. And fucking win!”
Tane looked around the players as Coach Tremaine continued to rant and rave.
