Page 151 of Uncoachable

I take a deep, shuddering breath of the cold air, and the world steadies itself. The panic recedes, replaced by the cold, hard focus she spent the whole season teaching me. The focus that makes me a captain instead of just a player.

The Third Period

This is the moment everything in my life has been leading toward.

Every shift feels like a lifetime, and every second feels like a heartbeat stretched thin until it’s about to snap. The score stays tied, the clock bleeding down with agonizing, mocking slowness.

Five minutes left.

I win a crucial face-off in our zone, the friction of the sticks sparking. Brick fires a shot that leads to a frantic scramble. The rival team’s center grabs the puck, spins, and shoots from the slot.

It’s a sure goal, a heartbreaker—except Cash catches it in his glove with a flash of leather. It’s the cleanest, most impossible save I’ve ever seen.

The arena goes absolutely insane.

Cash screams in triumph, skates to the bench, and slams his gloved hand into the glass right where Ivy is standing, his face a mask of pure joy.

“THAT WAS FOR YOU, COACH!” he bellows, his voice cracking.

She laughs and bangs the glass back with her fist, her rings clinking against the surface.

My chest feels too full, like it might actually burst with pride for this group of misfits she turned into a family.

But the game isn’t over.

The other team pulls their goalie. It’s a six-on-five storm. We block shots with our shins, we dive headfirst into the shooting lane, and we fight like hell.

Ten seconds. Nine. Eight.

The puck squirts loose and comes straight to my tape. I don’t think. I don’t aim. I just flip it high and long down the ice, watching it sail through the air in a perfect, slow-motion arc.

Seven. Six. Five.

It slides across the far blue line. It slides toward the crease and into the empty net.

The horn sounds—a long, beautiful, soul-piercing wail of victory. The arena erupts into a sound I can only describe as a physical explosion of joy.

I drop to my knees on the ice, the strength finally leaving my legs as the weight of the moment hits me.

We did it.

The team swarms me instantly.

Nico is screaming something I can’t understand, Brick is lifting me off the ice as if I weigh nothing, and Cash is crying openly, wiping his face on my jersey.

The crowd starts a chant that shakes the very rafters.

“REIGN! REIGN! REIGN!”

I look toward the bench. She’s standing there on the edge of the ice, her hands over her mouth and her eyes shining with tears that she isn’t trying to hide anymore.

I skate to her, my heart pounding harder than it did during the final minute of play. She steps onto the ice—careful and steady, but sure of her place among us. When I reach her, I don’t think about the cameras, the league, or the looming scandal.

I kiss her.

The arena roars so loudly I can feel it in my teeth. She laughs against my mouth, breathless and glowing.

“You’re insane, Captain,” she whispers, her hands clutching my shoulders.