Page 113 of The Beautiful Collision
But I’m not that guy anymore.
As the defenders commit to me, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. They’ve doubled Mike, too, but Leo Cooper—quiet, steady, dependable Cooper—is ghosting toward the back post. Nobody’s paying attention to him, all eyes on me and Mike, waiting for the moment where I try to seal it.
The go-big-or-go-home moment, a shot or a pass to Mike to seal the deal.
But not today.
I sell the shot with everything I have. Weight transfer, stick flex, even a little grunt of effort. The goalie goes down, slidingdesperately to his left before he can realize he’s guarding air, and both defenders try to block a shot that never comes. And at the last second, I flip a no-look backhand pass through the seam.
The puck lands on Cooper’s tape like it was meant to be there all along.
He doesn’t hesitate.
Then I hear the most beautiful sound in hockey: the goal siren on the buzzer.
For a heartbeat, there’s stillness.
That perfect, crystalline moment where everyone’s brain catches up.
Then the place goes absolutely nuclear.
I’m on my knees at the blue line, stick raised to the rafters, screaming something primal and wordless. Then Cooper slams into me, followed by Schmidt, and suddenly I’m at the bottom of a pile of bodies, someone’s elbow in my kidney, and Rook’s goalie pad across my face.
And I’ve never been happier in my entire life.
When we finally untangle, Mike’s there. We crash together in a hug.
He’s crying. I’m crying. We’re both laughing and crying and holding each other.
“You passed,” he says into my ear, barely audible over the chaos. “You beautiful bastard, you passed.”
“I needed some help to finish it,” I say back, though it comes out more like a sob.
The next few minutes are a blur. Trophy presentation, photos, and through it all, I keep looking for her. My parents make it down to the ice, my mom sobbing into my jersey, my dad’s hand heavy and proud on my shoulder. Chloe hugs me so tight I worry she’ll hurt herself, but she’s laughing for the first time in months.
But I need Maya.
And then I see her and skate over to her.
“Hi,” she says, like she didn’t just watch me win a national championship.
“Hi,” I say back, like I’m not covered in sweat.
“That pass,” she says, stepping closer. “Unexpected…”
“It was the right play,” I finish.
“No,” she says, and now she’s right in front of me, close enough that I can smell her perfume cutting through the hockey stink. “That was you. The real you. The guy who takes care of everyone else first, but who now knows when he needs help.”
My throat closes up. “We did it,” I manage.
“You did it,” she corrects, but I’m already shaking my head.
“No. We. None of this happens without you. The fundraiser, Chloe, us working through our shit—Maya, you saved me, in every way a person can be saved.”
She rises on her toes, pulling my face down to hers. “You saved yourself. I just… helped with the logistics.”
When I kiss her, it tastes like victory and the future and home all mixed together. Someone wolf-whistles—probably Rook—but I don’t care. I lift her off her feet, spinning her in a circle like we’re in some cheesy movie, her laughter bright and perfect against my mouth.
