“I noticed.”
“You’re glowing.”
The puck drops. And suddenly the game begins. Fast. Sharp. Relentless. The way hockey always is when it matters.
The Vipers play aggressively from the first minute, clearly testing Blake early to see whether the shoulder really holds or whether the recovery changed something they can exploit. For the first few shifts, I can’t stop watching every movement he makes, every turn, every check, every pass, waiting for some sign that something still hurts.
But nothing looks wrong. Nothing looks slower. Nothing looks uncertain. He looks like Blake. Completely.
“He’s moving normally,” Anna says quietly.
“I know.”
“You’re still holding your breath.”
“I know,” I whisper again.
Halfway through the first period, Zane intercepts the puck near center ice and sends it straight across to Blake in a movement so familiar it feels like watching muscle memory instead of strategy. Blake accelerates immediately toward the offensive zone like he’s been waiting weeks to do exactly that again.
The defense closes in fast. Too fast. And for a second, my stomach drops the same way it did the night everything went wrong. But he pivots. Cuts left. Passes cleanly to Jake. Shot. Goal.
The arena explodes. Jake jumps into Blake. Zane crashes into both of them seconds later. And I’m already on my feet before I realize I stood up.
“He did that,” Anna says beside me.
“He really did that,” I breathe.
The rest of the first period plays faster than I expect, the Grizzlies holding control most of the time while the opposing team tries repeatedly to push Blake into heavier contact than usual, but each time he moves out of it smoothly, confidently, like the injury belongs to another season entirely now instead of this one.
“He’s not holding back,” Tess says.
“He never does,” Gwen replies quietly.
By the second period, the game gets rougher. More physical. More urgent.
The other team knows they’re behind. And they know Blake matters tonight. Which means they go after him again.
The hit comes from the side. Hard. Legal. But close enough to the boards that my heart jumps into my throat before I can stop it.
He stays up. Keeps skating. Takes the puck back anyway. And passes it to Zane.
Shot.
Goal.
The crowd loses its mind.
Zane turns immediately toward Blake before celebrating with anyone else, tapping his helmet once like they’ve been doing that exact gesture since before either of them realized it would matter this much someday.
“They’re unstoppable together,” Anna says.
“They always have been,” I answer.
The third period is defense-heavy. Tense. Close.
The opposing team scores once with six minutes left on the clock, tightening the score enough that the entire arena begins leaning forward at the same time, like everyone here understands exactly what’s at stake tonight.
“We’ve got this,” Tess whispers.
