But sometimes, in order to heal and move forward, you have to break completely before you can be reset. But this little girl? She’s the cast wrapping around me and giving me strength.
The camera feed fades out to some ad, but I can’t focus on it because my vision is too blurry. I forgot that part of this job. The kids, the love from the fans.
I’ve blocked that entire side of my career out because I hated seeing the stories and comments constantly asking or talking about my injury. But I also blocked out moments like this, ones that used to mean the absolute most to me, and still do.
I play—playedhockey because I loved it more than I loved to breathe. I had skated before I could walk. The ice was my home, and it still is and forever will be. I think that no matter the capacity, I need to be here. In the rink, by the ice, helping and inspiring players of all ages. Hockey is what I was born to do, and I’m quickly learning that there isn’t just one way to do it.
“I see a spark,” Matt mumbles softly, just loud enough for me to hear.
My body heats up—not just because of his words, but because the fire inside of me is roaring back to life.
“You have no idea,” I whisper back, turning to face him head-on, my gaze struggling to stay on his and not dip down to the smirk on his lips.
Pride fills his smile, and he nods. “Attagirl.”
CHAPTER 9
MATT
The Penguins aren’t going to stand a chance this round—unfortunately for them, very fortunate for us. We’re up two to zero in the series. Best of seven wins the round and advances. The loser is eliminated. There’s no reward for anyone but first place. Winning is the only option.
Commotion sounds around me, but I ignore it, as I always do, staying trapped inside my own head during intermission. I can feel the hunger in my bones, my body fully in tune and focused into the game. We’re about to head into the third period, and we’re dominating the Penguins four to zero. I just have to hold them off for one more period.
Glancing around the room, I drink from my bottle, locking eyes with a few of the guys, each offering me a variety of silent praise. A thumbs-up from Larinski. A few nods of approval from Costy and Burnsy.
If there was ever a team or a time for us to succeed, it would be now, and as my heart hammers in my ears and we head out to the ice, I have zero doubts in our ability to deliver.
“Let’s go, Matty,” Kos cheers, patting my shoulder before I skate to my net.
The crowd is feral this time around. I mean, they were last game, too, but this is on an entirely new level. It almost makes my ears ring every now and then. But, God, the energy is unmatched.
Everyone sets up at center ice, and I shake my head forward, my mask perfectly in place, sword and shield at the ready. It’s time for war.
Let’s go, boys.
The ref drops the puck, and the Penguins take possession. Their passes are clean as they work up the ice toward me, breaking into the zone with ease, working our guys like they never have before.
“I’ve got this. I’ve got this. I’ve got this,” I mutter under my breath, my body fluid and in position, ready for whatever’s coming.
Their play is easy enough to read. They’re going to pass it to the left wing and force the center down toward the net, creating chaos, while their other wing gets open. The left wing passes it to the center, pulling our defense to it. But he passes it to the other wing, now open and stick at the ready.
He fires as soon as the puck’s in reach, flicking his wrist and sending the puck flying. It hurdles toward me, and I swear I hear the crowd take an audible gasp and hold their breath.
But I saw this coming from a mile away, and with a simple swipe of my glove, I catch the puck and hold it until the ref kills the play. Cheers erupt because of my stop, and my chest flutters with adoration.
Nothing beats playing at home and feeling like the whole world around you has your back. It’s indescribable.
We win the next face-off, getting our groove back that we definitely didn‘t have this last play, and we continue to dominate the zone, most of the remaining third period happening across the ice.
A tripping call on JD puts us on a penalty kill for two minutes. While we’re down a man, we manage to hold the Penguins off from getting a point on the board. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m definitely the reason behind it, stopping a few breakaways one-on-one.
Once the Nighthawks are back at full strength, only twenty seconds remain, and the Penguins don’t put up much of a fight while the clock runs out. The second that buzzer sounds, I scream with excitement, hoping that my dad is watching because I just got a shutout in the damn playoffs.
Spinning around, I grab the crossbar and lift the net off the posts that hold it in place in the ice, and in one swift motion, I pull the crossbar down, sealing the net closed on the ice.
“God, I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” I whisper to myself.
“Fuck yeah!” someone shouts, and I turn, finding Costy barreling toward me, the rest of the team racing behind him.
