Page 74 of One Pucking Life

I’m pacing the length of the Cranes’ private VIP suite, my chest tight with nerves. Caroline is lying in her stroller, sound asleep, looking adorable in her baby Cranes jersey with a big number four—her daddy’s number—across the front. I’m wearing a matching number four jersey and so proud to be doing so. Sometimes I still can’t believe this is my life. I’m in a committed relationship with a professional hockey player. A jock. Not only that—I’m living with him and helping raise his daughter.

I steal another glance at Caroline. The truth is, it doesn’t feel like I’m just helping raise his baby. It feels like I’m raising ours. And while I know logically that isn’t the case, my heart is fully committed. She’s mine. And I pray Max and I always work out, because I don’t know how I’d survive losing her.

I’m not just dating a jock—I’m dating Maxwell Park, and he is so much more than a label. Maybe before Caroline and me, he embodied some of the stereotypes I once believed about men in his position. But even if that’s true, I misjudged him from the start. He’s the greatest man I’ve ever known. Kind, patient,loving. He’s given me the space to grow, to navigate this new life without pressure. He gave me room to fall in love with him—at my own pace—and to accept it fully when I did.

And oh, have I ever.

I can’t imagine—nor would I want to imagine—a life without him. Honestly, I never thought this kind of love was possible for me. I wasn’t even sure it was real for anyone. I figured most people were faking it, exaggerating, because I couldn’t grasp that kind of emotion. But the way I feel about Max has shattered every cynical thought I ever had. When it comes to love, I’m no longer a skeptic. I’m a believer.

Our entire relationship has moved at my pace, and I think Max always knew I needed it that way. Somehow, he always knows what I need.

He’s flying across the ice in our home arena right now, protecting the goal like his life depends on it. It’s game five of the Stanley Cup Finals. The boys have won three of the four games already played against Colorado. If they win tonight, they’re Stanley Cup champions. Again.

Last year, they won it all during the final seconds of game seven. I’m hoping, and praying, they can seal the deal tonight because I’m not built for this level of stress. I’m a ball of anxiety. My stomach is in knots, and I swear I’m sweating more than the players on the ice. Max told me only a handful of teams in history have won back-to-back championships. I may be new to the world of hockey fandom, but right now, there’s little I want more than for these guys to win it all.

The atmosphere in the arena is electric. Even inside the enclosed VIP suite, the energy buzzes through the air like static. Fans are pounding the glass that separates the seats from the ice, screaming names and penalties, and waving signs. The roar nearly drowns out the booming voice of the announcer. Butall I can focus on is number four—my Max—as he moves like lightning, calm and composed, a wall of strength on defense.

He’s skating with Jaden tonight, their rhythm flawless. Cade, Beckett, Bash, and Gunner round out the core squad. Gunner’s in net, calm and calculating. Beckett just nailed a gorgeous assist, and Cade nearly scored twice in the first period.

And still… we’re down by one.

“Come on,” I whisper, practically holding my breath as Max drops low and blocks a blistering shot from Colorado’s forward. The puck smacks his stick with a loud crack, and he flicks it to Jaden, who clears it across the ice.

“You gonna make it?” Iris asks, stepping up beside me with a grin.

“I don’t know,” I admit, barely glancing away from the glass.

“It’s definitely not for the faint of heart,” she says with a chuckle. Her gaze follows her husband Cade, a softness in her expression. “But there’s nothing like it.” Her pride is palpable. And I get it. I really, truly do.

The buzzer signals the end of the second period. The team retreats through the tunnel behind their bench for the intermission before the third. The Cranes are trailing Colorado 2–1, and the tension inside the suite is thick. I sink back into my seat and draw in a steadying breath. Absentmindedly, I rock the stroller beside me back and forth, its wheels gliding smoothly as Caroline sleeps, completely unfazed by the chaos around her.

Around me, the VIP box buzzes with a low hum of anxious conversation. Elena, the team doctor, excuses herself to go check on the guys. Ariana reassures her mother that she’ll keep an eye on her brother Nolan.

Beckett and Elena’s son, almost one-year-old, toddles back and forth in front of the glass, smacking his pudgy hands against it. He’s completely adorable, and the spitting image of his dad. Iris once told me Elena went into labor during last year’s finalgame—which somehow makes Nolan’s existence feel like a lucky charm.

Anna and her best friend Miranda sit near the end of the row. Anna looks like the model she is, effortlessly stunning in Jaden’s jersey, while Miranda rocks number sixteen—Miles’s jersey. As the story goes, it was one of the only ones left in the team store when the two of them came to their first game last year since Miles was so new and under the radar. But Iris isn’t convinced. And honestly, after the blatant flirting I saw between them during bye week in Hawaii, I’m not so sure either.

I’m surrounded by families and loved ones of the players who all talk adamantly about what the guys need to do to clinch the title tonight. A lot of sporty words are thrown about, and even though I now consider myself a huge fan, let’s be real—I’m a fan of Max. The sport itself is still a bit of a mystery to me, so I simply listen.

The team returns from the short intermission, and Max looks at the box. A smile forms on his face when he finds me. I stand and place my hand against the glass, wanting him to know I’m rooting for him. He gives me a beautiful smile and returns to the game, locking in as the third period begins.

My pulse skyrockets as Max glides across the ice. It’s a tense back-and-forth battle, and once again, I find myself wondering if my anxiety is cut out for this kind of stress. But there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

With just under seven minutes left, Cade wins a faceoff and flicks the puck back to Max. He holds the blue line, digs in, and fires it to Beckett, who rips a shot through a tangle of players. The puck ricochets off the goalie’s pad and rebounds. Cade charges in and, with one clean motion, buries it in the back of the net.

The box explodes. I jump up, squealing, my hands flying into the air.

“Let’s go!” Iris shouts, high-fiving everyone as she makes a lap around the suite.

The Cranes have tied it 2–2. They’re so close to winning it all tonight.

The seconds on the clock tick by, and my eyes are glued to the ice. I’ve never wanted anything more than I want a win for these guys. This team and the people on it have become my family, my support network, and I’ve grown to love them all. But, mostly, I want this win for Max because he deserves the world.

With the clock ticking down and less than thirty seconds on the board, the Cranes push one final time. Bash carries the puck into the zone, dishes it to Cade—who’s immediately tripped—and the puck spills out behind the net.

Out of nowhere, Max is there.

He scoops the puck and swings around the back of the net, moving it into position.

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