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Despite everything, a laugh escaped me as I pushed myself upright.

The referee skated toward me while the Vegas goalie headed slowly back toward his crease.

“Thorne.”

I looked at him.

“Penalty shot.”

“Yeah,” I managed. “I gathered that.”

Everyone else was already moving toward the benches, and the enormity of what was about to happen didn’t really hit me until I looked around and saw the ice emptying.

Max went first, although he kept looking back at me. Dante and Baelor followed, then Cole, Tyson, and the Vegas players, while Taz skated toward our bench from the opposite end.

A minute ago, there had been ten skaters fighting for every inch of ice.

Now there was only me and the Vegas goaltender.

The official retrieved the puck while I tried to slow my breathing, but my heart had apparently decided it was personally responsible for keeping all twenty thousand people in the building alive.

Game Seven was tied 3-3 in sudden-death overtime, and I had been handed a chance to end it.

One attempt.

If I scored, we were going to the Western Conference Final.

I looked toward our bench.

Nobody was sitting. Theron stood behind the players with both hands braced on the boards, while Taz had squeezed himself between Cole and Dante and appeared to be saying something that made Dante shove him without ever taking his eyes off me.

Then I found Max.

He wasn’t watching the goalie or talking to Theron, and he didn’t seem interested in whatever was happening around him.

He was watching me.

The building was far too loud for either of us to hear the other, so he didn’t bother trying to shout. Instead, he touched two fingers to his chest before pointing them toward me.

My throat tightened.

For far too many years, I had lived terrified of being watched because being watched meant somebody might see the video, believe what my father wanted them to believe, and decide that one terrible moment when I was a frightened kid told them everything they needed to know about the man I’d become.

There had always been another camera to fear.

Another person who might see.

Another reason to hide.

Tonight there were twenty thousand people inside the arena and millions more watching from wherever they happened to be, with cameras trained on me from every possible angle.

For the first time, I didn’t care.

The official placed the puck at center ice and moved away while the Vegas goalie settled into position at the other end, bending his knees and loosening his shoulders as he waited for me.

Even Dave and Jack had gone quiet.

When Dave finally spoke, the humor that usually colored his voice had disappeared.