Page 96 of Hearts on Ice
But not for a miracle.
I stared down between my pads. The puck sat in the net, mocking me. My chest heaved, the sweat in my mask turning cold. For a second, I couldn’t hear anything — not the crowd, not the horn — just the blood pounding in my ears.
Then the noise crashed back. Fans on their feet. My teammates slumped on the ice, sticks hanging low. Across the rink, Chicago’s bench erupted.
I pressed a glove to the post, grounding myself. Drew’s silhouette stood behind the bench—arms folded, jaw tight, the stillness that always came when he was bleeding inside.
When the final horn blew, I stayed where I was—glove on the post, head bowed—as Chicago’s players spilled over the boards, helmets and gloves flying.
Then came the ritual no one skipped, win or lose.
The handshake line.
We met them at center ice, one by one—sweat-drenched, spent, too winded to say much more thangood game. Their captain gripped my hand hard, eyes steady.
“Hell of a series,” he said.
“Yeah,” I managed, voice rough. “You earned it.”
When I reached their goalie, he nodded once. “You were a wall out there, man.”
“Didn’t hold long enough,” I said.
And that was it. Tradition done. Series over.
I waited until the last of my teammates disappeared down the tunnel. Then I turned, slow and heavy, and skated off.
Drew stood by the boards, eyes locked on mine. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod — just met my gaze with that same look he’d given me all season: steady, grounding, proud.
Head up. You did everything.
Locker room. Silence.
No sticks banging. No music. Just the hum of the vents and the sting of loss.
I peeled off my gloves, my chest heaving. The pads suddenly weighed a ton. Across the room, Drew was still in his suit, arms folded, head bowed.
He finally spoke, voice low.
“You gave everything you had out there. Every damn shift. Every bruise. That’s hockey. Sometimes you do everything right and it still breaks your heart. But don’t let this game define you—you showed who you are.”
No one answered.
He looked up then, and our eyes met. It was a fraction of a second, but it hit like a shot to the ribs—love, pride, grief, all packed into one impossible glance.
I looked away first.
We’d lost the game.
Maybe more than the game.
Outside, I could still hear Chicago celebrating. Inside, all I could think was how eight seconds could erase a season—and how badly I wanted to cross the room, close the space, and hold him.
But I couldn’t.
Chapter 35
Drew
