Page 55 of Devil on Skates
She laughs. “Crisis changes priorities. Sometimes you almost have to lose something to realize how much it matters to you.”
“Right.”
She gently squeezes my hand.
“Come here,” I say, tugging her toward me.
She leans forward and then her lips brush against mine.
Epilogue
IRINA
YEARS LATER
The atmosphere in the arena is magnificent. Fans are cheering so loudly that everything vibrates with the sound.
I’m sitting in the family section, with Xavier’s number on my back, just like everyone else in our row. Tonight is a very important game, and it could either end up in total glory or a crushing heartbreak. Compared to college hockey, the pro level is a whole different beast, but I got to love Xavier’s team and he loves it too.
“He’s playing amazing tonight,” my dad says next to me. “His positioning’s spot on, and even when he doesn’t have the puck, he’s creating chances.”
That’s kind of the thing with Xavier. He and my dad have come a long way from where they started, and they’re now often sharing hockey talk like old friends. But I guess as my own relationship with my dad improved, so did Xavier’s with his former coach.
“Yeah, that’s what makes him stand out,” Xavier’s father says. “He reads the game like it’s happening before anyone else even sees it.”
He’s sitting on my dad’s other side. His relationship with Xavier has changed a lot too over time. It’s not like everything’s been wiped clean, but they’ve both grown closer.
“On and off the ice,” Xavier’s mom says with a soft smile, glancing at me.
She’s been a quiet but steady presence, helping rebuild family ties that needed more work than anyone expected.
“Xavier’s best trait has always been knowing what really matters and not just what people expect,” she adds.
My mom nods next to me. She’s been around more after Xavier’s accident, despite her husband’s protests. But he’s probably going to be around more too because one of his kids got really interested in hockey, and who would be a better mentor than Xavier?
The crowd jumps to their feet as Xavier grabs the puck near center ice. His usual burst of speed pulls him away from the defense. The defender bites too soon, and Xavier sees the opening instantly. It’s a quick shift, a slick move, and then the puck sails past the goalie’s glove.
The red light flashes, and the scoreboard shows us up by two with just minutes left. His teammates swarm him, all those hours of practice and hard work boiling over in this one moment.
Then Xavier skates right over to our section, taps his glove to his heart, and points at me, like he did after his first pro goal a few years back. It always warms me all over.
“He’s going to make me cry on live TV,” I whisper to my mom, who just squeezes my hand with a smile that says that she gets it.
“Let him,” she says. “Some things are worth the tears.”
As Xavier heads back to the bench, the crowd still cheering, I can’t help but think about everything that’s brought us to this point, from the first fiery meeting at that party to this moment of championship glory.
I remember Xavier, back when he was confident, almost cocky, and sure he’d get what he wanted, and the way he persistently chased me.
And I was just playing the role I thought was expected of me, juggling school, family, and my relationship while keeping my true self tucked away. But Xavier saw past that, bit by bit.
The last minutes tick down, tension soaring as the other team pulls their goalie, desperate to catch up. Xavier’s back on the ice, covering defense with the same all-in attitude that’s become his trademark.
“Thirty seconds,” my dad announces, even though we’re all aware of it.
His love for competition never falters. My phone buzzes. I take a quick look. It’s just my secretary from my sports rehab clinic letting me know everything’s ready for the party we’re throwing. We’re celebrating one year since I opened the place.
When the buzzer sounds, the arena goes crazy. Our players throw down their sticks, cheering and hugging. The feeling of victory is absolutely impossible to describe. It’s just so damn powerful.
