Page 100 of Chasing The Goal
It’s heavier than I thought.
And it’s mine.
Ours.
Mallory
Thefamily suite buzzedwith anticipation… a bee hive of nerves, hope and barely-contained energy. Bodies pressed together at the glass wall, backs arched as if leaning forward might somehow will the puck toward the right net. The rink below was a blur of color and motion, blades slicing hard into the ice as the final game of the Stanley Cup Finals unfolded. The HellBlades and the Las Vegas Knights were locked in a desperate, brutal stalemate. Game 7. The culmination of months of grit, bruises, and belief.
The score sat at3–3.
And the clock was bleeding out.
Beside me, Ava clutched a branded foam finger like it was a lifeline, her eyes fixed intently on the glass. Her other hand was wrapped tightly around the edge of the drink rail in front of us, knuckles white. She hadn’t blinked in what felt like minutes.
“They’re so close,” she whispered, more to herself than me. “Come on, Logan.” And down there—on the ice—both of them were playing like the Cup belonged to them. Like they’d die trying to prove it. My eyes flicked to Jaymie. Number 93, cutting across the zone with that impossible blend of control and urgency. Every time his skates touched the ice, I felt my lungs stop working right. Every time he passed the puck or took a hit, my stomach twisted.
“I think I’m gonna be sick,” I muttered.
Ava tore her eyes away for a split second to grin at me. “Right? Like, I’ve been with Logan for years and I still can’t watch him take a hit without threatening to storm the bench.”
I shifted Lola slightly in her wrap, resting one hand over her soft little belly. She was miraculously asleep, nestled against me like the chaos in the arena didn’t matter to her at all. Her earmuffs—comically oversized and pale pink—slipped slightly over her eyes, and I adjusted them gently.
“She’s so chill,” Ava said, still watching the game but softer now. “Too chill. It’s rude, honestly.”
“She’s saving the drama for later. Like prom night or when she starts dating.”
Ava snorted. “Ugh. Don’t even. If I ever had a daughter, I’d have to buy a taser and a lie detector.”
“She’s definitely going to be a handful,” I said, rocking a little from side to side, more to calm myself than her. “But right now I just want her dad to win this game.”
The third period was slipping fast. Every second was a knife twist. The puck moved like lightning, players colliding against the boards, sticks clashing like swords.
The Knights looked dangerous, but not deadly. You could see the fatigue starting to drag at their skates, the extra half-second it took them to switch off the rush. And the HellBlades? They smelled blood. They were circling. Connor passed to Logan. Logan to Jaymie. The chemistry on that line was almost too much to take—like watching a ballet of bruises and instinct. Then Jaymie passed back to Darren, who wound up for another slapshot, but the puck bounced off a stick and went wide.
Gasps. Groans. Swearing.
Lola stirred slightly in her wrap, a tiny grunt of protest. I hushed her softly, heart hammering against hers. “Shh, baby, just a little longer. He’s almost there.”
Then—chaos. A turnover in our favor. Connor launched forward, stick outstretched. He chased the puck into the corner, battled hard against the glass with two defenders hanging off him like armor. And somehow, he got it loose. Just enough.
He didn’t even look before passing.
He knew.
Jaymie caught it just inside the left circle, knees bent, posture lethal.
And then—
He fired.
It felt like time stopped.
The puck soared.
The red light flashed.
GOAL.
