Chapter 23 Chapter Twenty-Three
Danny POV
The moment I stepped onto the rink for warm-ups, my eyes roved around the seats trying to find Vanessa. Marco had mentioned in the locker room that his girlfriend was seated in– Section 201.
I couldn't help looking even as I skated through warm up drills with the team on our side of the rink. My eyes kept drifting up to those seats, searching for wild ginger hair and forest-green eyes.
And then I found her.
She was there in one of the rows next to her friend Bean, her hands clutched together across her stomach looking absolutely beautiful.
I couldn't believe she had actually come to see me. She'd said she would try, but part of me hadn't believed it would actually work.
I hadn't believed she'd actually walk into the building after the huge panic attack last time. But there she was, and when our eyes met across the distance, everything else faded away.
The noise from the crowd faded into white noise, all my worries, the pressure from the scouts, my father, the team—all of it disappeared. There was just her, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't quite read but desperately wanted to understand.
I raised my stick slightly, a small gesture just for her and she smiled back at me.
That smile hit me like a physical force, warming something in my chest that I hadn't realized had gone cold.
This was my chance, play a good game, show her and everyone else what I could do.
"Yo, Captain!" Ethan skated up beside me, following my gaze.
"Is that—holy shit, is that Vanessa?"
"Yeah," I said, unable to keep the grin off my face.
"Dude, she actually came?" Dylan joined us, looking impressed.
"I thought she didn't like hockey” he huffed and I grinned wider.
"She came,"
"Then you better play the game of your life," Jake Booker said, slapping my shoulder as he glided past.
"Don't make her regret it."
The buzzer sounded, and we cleared the ice for the opening ceremony. My heart was pounding, adrenaline already flooding my system. I glanced up one more time, found her in the crowd, and then forced myself to focus.
Game time.
The national anthem played and the crowd roared, the referee dropped the puck and everything became crystal clear.
I'd played hundreds of games in my life—youth leagues, high school tournaments, three seasons of college hockey.
But no game had ever felt like this, like I could tell the moves by steps ahead. Every movement was precise,and the puck seemed to find my stick like it was magnetized, and my teammates moved around me like we were parts of a single machine.
Five minutes in, I assisted on Ethan's goal.
The crowd went wild, but I was already skating back to position, eyes on the opposing center, reading his body language.
Ten minutes in, we were up 2-0, and I could feel the momentum building. This was it. This was the game we'd been training for all season.
I saw Marco, tackling the opposing team, he was playing well—better than he had in weeks, actually. His stick work was clean but there was something in his eyes when he looked at me that had me thinking he was cooking up something that would cause us a lot of trouble.
We were heading into the second period when he finally made his move. I was carrying the puck up the right side, looking for an opening, when Marco cut across my path.
It should have been a normal defensive play—teammates blocking for each other, but the angle was wrong and the timing was off. He slammed into me hard, shoulder to chest, and I went down.
The impact knocked the wind out of me, and for a second I just lay there on the ice, trying to remember how to breathe. The referee's whistle blew, stopping play, and I heard Coach shouting something from the bench.
Ethan and Dylan were at my side immediately, helping me up.
"You good?" Ethan asked, his face tight with concern.
"Fine," I managed, even though my ribs were screaming.
"Just got the wind knocked out of me."
But I knew it wasn't an accident, I looked over at him as I skated to the bench for a line change. He was already back in position, his expression unreadable.
What the hell was his problem?
"That was a dirty hit," Coach said as I sat down, his jaw tight.
"You want me to pull him?"
"No," I said immediately.
"We need him."
It was true as much as Marco was being an asshole, he was still one of our best players. Pulling him would hurt our chances of winning, especially since I was out fit at the moment. I couldn't let personal drama cost us the championship.
Coach didn't look happy, but he nodded. "Are you sure you're okay to play?"
"I'm fine," I lied, ignoring the ache in my ribs.
I glanced up at Section 201. Vanessa was on her feet, her hands pressed to her mouth, looking worried. Even from this distance, I could see the concern in her eyes.
I needed to show her I was okay.
The second period continued brutally fast, the other team was good—really good—and they'd figured out our strategy.
They started playing more aggressively, hitting harder, and suddenly we were fighting for every inch of ice.
Midway through the period, one of their defensemen—a huge guy with a reputation for dirty plays—went after Marco. The hit was vicious, slamming Marco into the boards so hard I heard the impact from across the ice.
Marco went down, and for a second I thought he might not get up but then he did, slowly, and when he looked over at the guy who'd hit him, there was murder in his eyes.
The referee was already skating over, whistle raised, but Marco waved him off.
Coach looked over to me
“ Marco is hurt, he's not going to be able to make the play on his, can you do it” he asked and I looked over at the rink and nodded
“ Yeah I can do it coach, put me back in”
I slid over the ice in the rink as Marco skated back into position, and as he passed me, our eyes met.
And then—impossibly—he winked.
It was such a bizarre gesture that I almost laughed. One second ago, he'd been gunning for me, and now he was winking like we were in on some private joke?
But then I understood.
Targeting me, getting me off the ice and setting himself up as the only target for the opposing team.
It had all been a rise to get them, make them overlook me. He gestured subtly with his stick toward the opposing goal and his message was clear.
Score.
Whatever personal shit was between us, whatever drama had been building all season—it didn't matter right now. Right now, we were teammates. And we had a championship to win.
I nodded once, and he nodded back.
The third period was a war.
The other team scored, bringing it to 2-1. Then we scored again, making it 3-1, then two more goals in rapid succession, and suddenly it was 3-3 with five minutes left.
The crowd was deafening, the pressure crushing, I could feel every scout's eyes on me, every expectation bearing down.
My father was up there somewhere, probably already composing his critique, but at least Vanessa was watching.
Four minutes left. Three. Two.
We needed this goal. One more goal to win it all.
Marco drew two defenders to the left, creating space on the right for Ethan with the puck, looking for an opening. The goalie shifted his weight, preparing for a shot from the point.
And there—there was the gap. A tiny window between the defenseman's stick and the goalie's blocker. I moved without thinking, muscle memory and four years of training taking over.
I called for the pass, and Ethan saw me, sent the puck flying across the ice, it hit my stick perfectly.
Forty-five seconds on the clock.
I faked left, drew the defenseman out of position, then cut right. The goalie was scrambling, trying to adjust, but I'd already committed to the shot.
Thirty seconds.
I released the puck, putting every ounce of strength I had behind it.
Time seemed to slow down. I watched the puck arc through the air, watched it slip past the goalie's outstretched glove, watched it hit the back of the net with a satisfying thunk.
The buzzer sounded.
The crowd exploded.
We won.
We'd won the championship.
My teammates mobbed me, screaming and laughing and slapping my helmet.
Ethan was yelling something about how sick that shot was and the Booker twins were doing some kind of coordinated victory dance and even Coach was grinning, which I'd only seen maybe three times in my entire college career.
But all I could think about was getting to Section 201.
I needed to see her, needed to know she'd watched, because that felt more important to me than my parents or team mates.
The celebration moved to center ice, the team piling on top of each other in a mass of joy and relief. Cameras flashed and someone started chanting my name.
I went through all the motions—shook hands, accepted congratulations, posed for photos. But my eyes kept drifting to the stands, searching.
Finally, finally, we were allowed to leave the ice. The crowd was still cheering, still celebrating, but I didn't care. I skated to the bench, hopped over, and immediately started looking for the stairs to Section 201.
"Danny!" My mother's voice cut through the chaos.
I turned to find both my parents making their way down from their section. Mom looked radiant, tears streaming down her face. Dad looked satisfied, proud even, though he was trying to hide it behind his usual stoic expression.
"That was incredible!" Mom threw her arms around me, not caring that I was sweaty and gross.
"I'm so proud of you!"
"Thanks, Mom," I said, trying to be present for this moment but desperate to get away.
"Hell of a goal," Dad said, extending his hand for a shake. High praise from Jonathan Glover.
"The scouts were impressed. Mitchell from the Bruins wants to talk to you."
"That's great," I said automatically.
"Listen, I need to—"
"We're still on for dinner, right?" Mom asked.
"We made reservations at that Italian place you love."
"Yeah, of course," I said.
"But I just need to find someone first. Can you give me twenty minutes?"
Mom's eyes sparkled with curiosity. "Someone?"
"A friend," I said quickly. Too quickly, judging by Dad's suddenly sharp expression.
"What friend?" he asked.
"Just someone from class. I'll meet you guys okay?"
Before they could ask more questions, I turned and started pushing through the crowd. Section 201 was on the opposite side of the arena, and getting there meant fighting through celebrating fans and team families and journalists looking for quotes.
I didn't care. I just needed to get to her.
By the time I reached Section 201, I was out of breath and my ribs were killing me from Marco's hit. I scanned the seats, looking for wild ginger hair and a green sweater.
But the section was mostly empty now, just a few stragglers collecting their things.
No Vanessa.
No Bean.
They were gone.
I closed my eyes in frustration, my brain running a mile a minute to think but then it came to me, her notebook. She wouldn't leave without it.
I rushed tooward the players station, I had to get to the locker room and find it.