Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Glove side.
Top shelf.
The sound it makes when it hits the net is a perfect snap.
The horn blares because the puck is in and it’s game over for San Diego.
The crowd erupts, a split-second delay before the noise crashes down around me. Not cheers of delight because we’re in enemy territory. Groans from the home fans and a few boos punctuated by shouts from the tiny pocket of Titans fans in the upper level. My teammates explode off the bench, helmets flying, gloves tossed.
Adrenaline floods through me. I throw my arms wide, coasting into the corner with a wild grin on my face as the guys swarm.
Anders hits me first, hard and fast. “You greedy bastard!” he yells, laughing.
Van grabs me in a headlock, shaking my helmet like a bobblehead. “I fucking love you!”
I can’t stop smiling. My chest feels like it might crack open from the inside out. We did it.
The Titans are going to the playoffs and my streak’s still alive. Every year since I got drafted, I’ve made the postseason and part of that has to be due to luck.
But this playoff clinch? It hits different.
Because somewhere, back in Pittsburgh, Winnie’s probably watching.
Maybe she’s at her parents’ house curled up on the couch, laughing with Sadie and eating too much popcorn. Or maybe she’s alone with Buttermilk passed out across her lap, wearing those ridiculous llama pajamas. She’d have her phone in hand, scrolling social media and catching the highlight clip before the game even ends.
Either way… she saw it.
And for the first time in my life, the win doesn’t feel complete because of the stats or the stakes. It feels complete because someone who knows me—not just the hockey part, but all the in-between parts—is cheering for me. Even when I’m three thousand miles away.
♦
The locker room is as much a party as one can have when on the road.
The second we’re through the tunnel, it’s the best kind of pandemonium. Towels snapping, water bottles launching like confetti, and shouts echoing off the concrete walls like we’ve just won the damn Cup.
“Playoffs, baby!” Atlas bellows, pumping both fists in the air like a man possessed.
“Get this man a tattoo that says CLUTCH!” Anders says, climbing up onto a bench like it’s a stage. “Two assists tonight. I am, officially, the regular season goal whisperer.”
“You literally passed the puck twice,” I grouse, tossing my gloves into my cubby. “Welcome to the bottom line of hockey.”
Kace is mid-TikTok dance, still in partial gear, sweat dripping down the side of his face like he’s doing hot yoga instead of celebrating a buzzer-beater win. He’s been holding fucking strong in Drake’s place and I’m proud of the kid.
“What the hell kind of dance is that?” I ask, laughing as I strip off my elbow pads.
“It’s a remix of the ‘heart attack shuffle.’” He grins, stepping wildly left and right, arms jerking like he’s being electrocuted.
Someone throws a roll of hockey tape at his chest. “You’re making us look uncool, Elliott.”
“You are uncool,” he calls back, undeterred.
Foster walks by with a smirk and mutters, “And to think this team almost folded.”
That gets quiet smiles, all around. Because he’s not wrong.
Just last season, we were scattered. Broken. A team in name, but not in spirit. And now? We’ve clawed our way back. We didn’t just survive—we rebuilt.
Together.
The door swings open and everyone looks up.
Brienne Norcross strides in, polished as ever in a fitted blazer, hair pulled back, sharp heels clicking on the tile. Right behind her is Drake, still favoring his leg a little. He’s in a bespoke navy suit, his grin wide as hell.
“Don’t stop celebrating on my account,” Brienne calls out, raising her voice above the lingering chatter. “I just wanted to pop in to say congratulations.”
She pauses and scans the room like she’s looking each of us in the eye, and it quiets down.
“No one thought this was possible a year ago. No one thought a team gutted mid-season could rebuild like this. But you did it. You put in the work. You pulled each other through it. And now you’ve earned your spot.”
The room goes still. Not quiet, exactly—just charged. Listening.
“Other teams bought their way in,” she continues. “You built your way in. And you should be proud of that.”
Atlas lets out a “Hell yeah,” and the noise threatens to boil over again, but Brienne holds up a hand.
“One more thing.”
She looks around and although it’s impossible, it feels like she’s talking to each of us individually.
“I meant what I said the day I took over this team. This isn’t just about wins. It’s about legacy. And what you’re building here, what we’re building together, is something people are starting to notice. Finish strong. Show them that the Titans are back, and we’re here to stay.”
There’s a beat of silence before the whole room erupts. Fists slam against lockers. Helmets are banged together in a half-hearted headbutt. Someone blasts music. Kace tries to do a trust fall off a bench and immediately regrets it.