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My therapist is done, and I sit up. “Maybe he’ll even drop you to third.”
His expression is appalled. “There’s no need. Why do you always have to take it so far? So negative.”
His therapist pulls his pushed-up shorts back down, and we throw on some slides to head back toward the lockers.
“I know Coach hates it. This is my second season with him grilling my ass, but what am I supposed to do? It’s the endorsements and stuff.”
“I don’t know anyone who has to be in Vegas as much as you, apart from strippers and magicians.”
He laughs. “Look, I’m being a good boy.”
We sit, both leaning against a locker and putting our feet up on a chair, waiting for the coaches to all come in and do a briefing. There’s one of those momentary lulls, the ones where the world goes quiet, like the whole universe pauses on an inhale. And that’s when Logan’s wisdom becomes clear. There’s no time like the present.
I drop the news. News that will affect him almost as much as me. “I’m going to retire after next season.”
Logan’s head snaps in my direction, his face something between confused and mortified. “What?”
I speak low and quiet. “I want to be with Joey. I want to be in the Canyon. I want… well, I want things that eighty-plus games a year and constant aches and pains aren’t a good trade for anymore.” I stare at him seriously. “But most of all, I want to go out on top.”
His Adam’s apple works its way up and down his neck, and it’s rare to see Logan quite so speechless.
“Don’t mention it to anybody. I already talked to my agent about it, and he said we need to be careful about the timing of the announcement. But… well,” I smile, “I already used my get-out-of-jail-free card with you, so it’s not like I’ll keep it from my best friend.”
Logan finally breathes and stares at the floor like some sort of reality has set in. “Fuuuuck.”
“Fuck is right. I never thought the day would come.”
His gaze flickers up, and there’s a sadness in it. “One more season after this?”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “We got a chance. Let’s make it count.”
The deafening roar of the crowd echoes in my ears as I skate forward, the cold, hard ice beneath me feeling both familiar and foreign. No matter how many times a man performs in a shoot-out, it feels like the first. It all comes down to this. The weight of expectation, the pressure, and the stakes bear down on me when I glide myself out to the center of the rink.
I raise my gaze to the box where Jolie has been jumping around like a wild woman with Gabs and Iris all night. The three of them shared high fives, celebration hugs, and from the look of it when they dance and mouth the songs on the loudspeaker, quite a lot of beer. It warms me to no end that my few friends outside of Starlight Canyon embrace my woman, especially on an occasion where they’re cheering for opposing teams.
But right now, Joey is still, concentrating on the ice, her fingers clasped, hands folded in front of her mouth in anticipation of what might happen here. How I’ll perform. Our eyes lock even across the vast distance. She lowers her hands, and a smile that could melt the ice reaches me. She turns around and points to the name on the back of her jersey.Dane.It’s the first time she’s worn it, though I bought it for her a while ago. It was the right thing to meet with Chloe. Now we’re free. Now we’re public. And the whole world knows that that small-town queen is mine.
She blows me a kiss, and I feel it bone-deep, taking itwith me to the puck. It’s time to concentrate now. Time to do my job.
The opposing goalie, masked and commanding, stares me down from the net. I take a deep breath, trying to silence the noise around me, the jeering meant to put me off by the Raptors fans, who just a couple of years ago would have been barking like Great Danes for me. Humans are fickle. Apart from Jolie. I still can’t believe that woman has been steady all my life.
I let out another breath, calming myself. The tension in the arena is suffocating, and each heartbeat reverberates through my chest.
The referee’s whistle pierces the air, signaling the start of my solitary attack on the goal. I pick up speed, the puck dancing on my stick. With a quick feint, I try to outsmart the goalie. The puck leaves my stick, a swift shot to the top corner, and it’s in. I glance back up at my girl, jumping up and down on her own. Gabs and Iris are clapping politely. They wouldn’t normally, but they do it to make my girlfriend comfortable. They must really like her.
I skate back to the bench, and Logan is up. He hasn’t been himself all game, but only I know him that well. He’s been playing fine but without his usual finesse. The punchy boyish fire that he manages to hold onto, even in his mid-thirties, is absent tonight. But Logan’s unique gift in hockey, and in life, is staying calm under pressure. As such, since we were knee-high, he’s always been a closer.
We need this goal just to tie it up again and keep this game going. Every goal is etched on my bones this season, I want that cup win more than ever. For Jolie. For me. For Logan.
I stand at the edge of the rink, gripping the cold metal of the boards, my breath visible in the frigid air. The tension inthe arena is thick, hanging like a heavy fog. The shoot-out is the deciding moment: will we play on for a win, or will this be our second loss this season?
The whistle blows, and my heart pounds when I watch him skate toward the goalie, the puck on the blade of his stick. Time seems to slow down, each stride like a bass drum in my chest. Logan is agile, his movement unpredictable, strong but somehow graceful.
He dekes left, then right, trying to outmaneuver the goalie. Finally, he pulls back his stick and in his signature play goes for the top-left corner. The goalie reacts with lightning reflexes, stretching out to make a sprawling save. The shot is blocked, and a collective gasp echoes through the arena, followed immediately by a deafening roar of victory.
Logan skates back to the bench, head bowed, shoulders slumped, a posture I’m not used to seeing on him. Though he rarely misses, when he does, he doesn’t usually display the disappointed defeat most players do. Logan typically gets mad. Instead, disappointment is etched on his face, and my heart pangs for him. We made it this far together, fought hard in every shift, and now I know… all he can think about is our conversation in the locker room.
We’ll regroup. He’ll come to terms with it. And hopefully, he’ll do what he has to do for us to finally, after all these years in the NHL, make that dream of two little boys on a small-town pond come true. This year or the next, we have to be holding that Stanley Cup up together.
