Page 95 of Dirty As Puck
When the ceremony ends, I slip outside into the cool night air. The city hums around me, distant and alive. Kai follows, his suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder, eyes still lit with pride.
“You looked so good up there,” he says softly, brushing his knuckles against mine.
I laugh, shaking my head. “I almost tripped walking up.”
“You owned it.”
We find a quiet bench away from the noise. I pull out my notebook, the one that’s traveled with me through every stage of this mess.
Tonight, I don’t write about Derek or some form of corruption. I start a new header:
Book Draft - Media Manipulation & Athlete Exploitation.The words spill out, not polished but urgent.
Kai leans over, reading the messy scrawl. “This is your next fight, isn’t it?”
I glance at him, heart swelling. “Our fight. You gave me the reason to tell the story.”
He presses a kiss to my temple, and for the first time, I don’t feel like I’m chasing after a career or redemption. I’m standing in it. This purpose, truth, and love is just the beginning.
Epilogue
The roar inside the arena feels like a living thing, pulsing through my chest as I skate to the bench for what could be the final shift. The scoreboard blares a tie with only a few minutes left till the end of the game.
My lungs burn, but adrenaline keeps me upright. This is it, the moment kids dream of, the one people say defines careers.
But I’m not thinking about legacy or career defining moments. I’m thinking about Rochelle. I spot her in the stands, her hair loose, my jersey hanging from her shoulders like she was born to wear it. The sight steadies me, anchors me.
One year ago, I was drowning in scandal and shame. Derek’s schemes, all of it weighed like chains. Now Derek’s behind bars, serving seven years for extortion, fraud, and identity theft. Justice has been delivered.
My demons no longer own me. And yet, the puck drops, and I realize this is more than a game, it’s proof that I survived those difficult moments.
The shift blurs. Skates cut the ice, players bodies crashing against each other, and the crowd surges with every pass. The puck finds my stick, almost like fate aligning.
I drive forward, defenders closing in. For a split second, I see the empty net, the opening I’ve waited for my whole life. My wrist snaps, and the puck sails past the goalie’s glove, rattling the back of the net.
The world explodes as the whole arena erupts in screaming and roaring.
My teammates swarm me, their gloves and helmets flying, bodies crashing into mine in celebration. But through all the chaos, my eyes are locked on the press box. On the woman I love.
Rochelle is on her feet, clapping and staring at me as tears stream down her cheeks. The crowd screams, but all I hear is the echo of her faith in me, how she never stopped fighting when everyone else wanted me buried.
I rip my helmet off, chest heaving, sweat dripping down my temples. My teammates are still shouting, pounding my back, but I raise a hand to my chest, slam it once, hard, then point directly at her.
The cameras flash, the moment immortalized, but I don’t care about the headlines anymore. This victory isn’t mine alone. It would always be ours.
I just won the Stanley Cup, but my real triumph is that woman in the stands. My everything.
The rink is still in chaos, confetti raining from the rafters, cameras blinding me, the Cup gleaming like some impossible dream made real.
My teammates lift it high, passing it down the line, kissing the silver like it’s sacred. But even as the biggest trophy in hockey makes its rounds, my heart is somewhere else. With her. Always.
I dig into my glove, my fingers brushing the small velvet box I’ve kept close all through playoffs, waiting for this moment. My pulse pounds harder than it did in the final seconds of the game. This is the real faceoff.
I skate toward the boards, toward the press section where Rochelle leans over the railing, eyes wet, cheeks flushed. The crowd noise dips into a dull hum in my ears, like the arena itself is holding its breath.
I climb onto the dasher, the box tight in my fist, then drop to one knee on the ice. A collective gasp rolls through the stands. The cameras whip to me. Reporters struggle to get better angles. My teammates freeze mid-celebration.
“Rochelle Winters,” I shout, voice breaking but steady enough to carry, “you saw me, my every scar, every mistake, every weakness and you loved me anyway. You gave me back my life. My family. My future. And I can’t imagine another day without you by my side.”
