Page 206 of Falling Offsides

EPILOGUE

AUGUSTE

NINE MONTHS LATER…

Overtime is slipping away.

Twenty seconds. That’s all we’ve got. My lungs burn, legs dead, heartbeat pounding like a war drum in my chest.

Boom, boom, boom…

Counting down the seconds between glory and defeat.

The puck ricochets along the boards. Bodies crash around me—the squeak of blades carving ice, the grunts of men fighting for breath, for glory, for the kind of ending that gets etched into history books.

Jayden catches my eye across the chaos. Doesn't even look at the puck—he just knows. Because this is the moment that endless hours of practice count.

It’s instinct.

He slings the puck across the ice in one fluid motion, the black disk spinning through the air, threading between defenders like it's found its own path.

It lands on my stick with a satisfying thwack. Like it was always meant to be there. Like this moment was written before I was born.

I don't think. I strike.

The puck ricochets off my stick and slices clean through the goalie's short-side.

I don’t know what comes first: the siren, the light or the roar of the crowd.

Twenty thousand people screaming my name, stomping their feet, the whole building trembling with their joy. The sound hits me like a physical force, pressing against my skin.

We did it.

The Comets just won the Stanley Cup.

I drop to my knees on the ice, the cold seeping through my pads. I tip my head back, arms spread wide like I'm trying to embrace the universe. The noise is deafening. The crowd, my teammates, our coaches, the confetti… all of it is a blur of movement and adrenaline and disbelief.

And in all of that there’s only one thing I’m looking for.

One person.

My eyes scan frantically, pushing past the sea of faces, the flashing lights, the reporters already swarming the ice.

Until there she is.

My gorgeous girl with her curls frizzy from the moisture in the air and her camera around her neck.

Standing just behind the bench, a big, goofy smile on her face. Her hands are pressed over her mouth, trembling. Those piercing blue eyes that have owned me since day one, are locked on me like I'm the only thing that matters in this circus of celebration.

Courtney.

My Courtney.

I don't care that they're calling my name to lift the Cup. I don't care that my teammates are charging toward me, helmets off, faces split with grins. I don't even hear them. Their voices fade to static as I push myself up, legs somehow finding strength I didn't know I had left.

I skate off the ice, each stride purposeful despite my exhaustion. Pulling my helmet and gloves off, I drop them with a clatter and walk straight to her. I don’t break eye contact for a second, afraid she might disappear if I look away.

“Auguste…” she barely gets my name out before I pull her into my arms and kiss her like we've been chasing this moment across lifetimes.

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