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Sutton's voice, now filled with pleading urgency, begins to drift away, her words barely audible as she implores, "Please, please forget it."
"I need another beer..."
I'm not entirely sure what the hell is going on at this moment, but I can't let it distract me. For the next few hours, I need to push aside whatever's happening and stay focused on winning this damn game.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SEVEN
LINCOLN
This is it.
Everything I've been working towards since I signed my letter of intent with Willow Park University. Every grueling workout, every endless practice, and all those late nights dissecting game footage—it has all converged into this pivotal moment. My relentless dedication hinges on the outcome of this sudden death.
As the game reaches its climax, the score stands at an even 4-4. The next team to score a goal will claim victory. In all my years of hockey, I've never encountered a game that had to be decided this way.
It feels unjust.
I've never played under these circumstances, but there's a first time for everything, right? Winning today means more to me than I care to admit. This isn't just about the game; it's about making everything I've been through up to this point count.
In the recesses of my mind, I recognize that losing this game wouldn't shatter my world. I'd still have my family, Sutton, Ronan, and my education. Hell, I'd still have hockey.
At times, I've questioned whether I truly enjoy hockey as much as I should. But in moments like this, the passion surges within me, making every moment I've spent preparing worth it.
The whistle pierces the air, and Ronan takes control of the face-off, sending the puck hurtling down the ice toward Marshall. I buckle down and focus on executing the play that our coach outlined during the timeout.
This is my moment.
I cut across the ice, anticipation building with each stride, waiting for Marshall to deliver the pass that will set up the game-winning goal. The championship-winning goal.
As the puck connects with my stick, and I follow through on my shot, time seems to stretch out, as if it's moving in slow motion. Or maybe I need to see a doctor soon; I've taken a few too many hits to the head tonight.
In that brief, heart-pounding moment, I watch the puck sail through the air. My breath hangs in suspension. And then, it happens. The puck finds the back of the net, and a deafening roar fills the arena.
I must have blacked out for a second because the next thing I know, my teammates are swarming me in a jubilant dogpile. It's a wild, exhilarating scene.
The celebration is swift as everyone helps to wrap things up. We're all eager to revel in our victory. Ronan crushes me in a bear hug, and Marshall, his gloves discarded, skates over to join us.
"A freaking golden goal, man. You just couldn't help yourself," Marshall exclaims, grabbing onto the front of my helmet. The compliments are gratifying, but the only ones I truly crave are from Sutton.
My adrenaline still courses through my veins as I go through the post-game routine. My mind can't help but race ahead, thinking about what comes next.
What comes next is celebrating with Sutton.
I draw her into my arms and lean down for a passionate kiss as soon as I reach her. When we part, I'm met with the sight of her tear-filled eyes.
I panic. "What's wrong?" I ask, my heart skipping a beat.
Sutton chuckles through her tears, her eyes shimmering with happiness. "I'm so freaking happy for you!"
Thank goodness.
I can't restrain myself, the elation of the moment surging through me. I pull her in for another kiss, oblivious to any potential audience.
"We have to make a quick stop at Silver's," I inform her, nipping at her chin playfully.
"Anything you want," she says with a tender smile. "I love you."
"I love you too," I respond, sealing our shared affection with a final, lingering kiss.
