Chapter 41 Last Home Game
May in Evergreen Hollow was always bittersweet: the ice melting for the season, the rink lights dimming earlier each night, and the promise of summer just around the corner. But this May carried a weight none of the Kanes had fully prepared for.
It was Lily’s senior day—the final home game of her college career at Denver.
The Pioneers were hosting their rivals in the conference semifinal, winner advancing to the championship weekend. The arena was packed, crimson and gold everywhere, the student section louder than ever.
Lily’s family had flown in the night before: Rowan, Holly, Everett (now fifteen and taller than his dad), Clara (ten and fiercely proud in her custom Pioneers jersey with “KANE 18” on the back). They filled an entire row behind the bench, signs waving, voices ready.
Before warmups, Lily skated over to the glass. She tapped it twice—her old signal from youth hockey—and pressed her glove to the spot where her family’s hands waited on the other side.
Holly’s eyes filled instantly. Rowan’s arm tightened around her shoulders. Everett pretended he wasn’t wiping his face. Clara just beamed and blew kisses.
The game was intense from the drop.
Lily’s line started, and she won the opening faceoff clean, back to her defenseman who fired a shot that rang the post. The crowd roared. Forty minutes of back-and-forth followed: big saves, near misses, a goal waved off for goaltender interference.
Midway through the third, tied 2-2, Lily drew a penalty on a breakaway—hooked from behind as she bore down on net. The power play clicked: crisp passes, a screen in front, and Lily buried a one-timer from the slot. The arena exploded.
With three minutes left, the rivals tied it on a fluke bounce.
Overtime.
The tension was thick enough to taste. Lily’s line took the first shift. She carried the puck over the blue line, dropped a pass, cut to the net—and there it was: a perfect rebound that she roofed over the goalie’s shoulder.
Game over. Pioneers win. Advancing to the championship.
The bench emptied. Teammates mobbed her. The crowd chanted “Ka-ane! Ka-ane!”
Lily skated straight to the glass again, helmet off, hair plastered with sweat, tears already streaming. She pressed both gloves to the spot where her family waited.
Holly was sobbing openly now. Rowan’s eyes were red, his arm around Everett who had given up pretending and was crying too. Clara was jumping up and down screaming “That’s my sister!”
Senior day ceremony followed immediately.
One by one, the graduating players skated out with their families. When Lily’s name was called, she glided to center ice. The announcer’s voice cracked a little: “Number 18, forward, four-year letter winner, alternate captain, from Evergreen Hollow, Minnesota… Lily Kane!”
Rowan and Holly walked out first, then Everett and Clara. The five of them met Lily in the middle of the ice, the spotlight warm on their faces.
The announcer continued: “Escorted tonight by her parents, Holly and Rowan Kane, her brother Everett, and her sister Clara.”
The crowd gave a standing ovation that lasted a full minute.
Lily hugged each of them in turn: Clara first (tight and long, Clara whispering “I’m so proud” in her ear), then Everett (who had grown so much he had to bend down, his voice breaking with “You’re the best, Lil”), then Holly (mother and daughter clinging like they never wanted to let go), and finally Rowan.
Rowan held her the longest, his hand on the back of her head like when she was small.
“You did it, Captain,” he whispered, voice thick. “I’m so proud of you.”
Lily pulled back, tears streaming. “Couldn’t have done any of it without you.”
They posed for the official photo: five Kanes in the center circle, arms around each other, the championship banner in the background and the crowd still on its feet.
Later, in the locker room, Lily’s teammates gave her the game puck and a framed photo of the senior day moment. She cried again.
That night, back at the hotel, the family gathered in Rowan and Holly’s room for a quiet celebration: room-service pizza and root beer, everyone in pajamas.
Lily sat cross-legged on the bed between Everett and Clara, showing them videos from the game on her phone.
Everett kept pausing at her overtime goal. “Look at that release. So quick.”
Clara just kept saying, “You’re my hero, Lil-eee.”
Holly and Rowan sat on the couch watching their children, hands linked, hearts too full for words.
When the kids finally fell asleep—Clara curled against Lily, Everett sprawled across the foot of the bed—Rowan and Holly slipped out to the balcony.
The city lights sparkled below, the mountains dark silhouettes against the stars.
Rowan’s voice was rough. “She’s really leaving college.”
Holly nodded, tears slipping quietly down her cheeks. “And stepping into something bigger.”
Rowan pulled her close. “We gave her roots strong enough to fly.”
They stood there a long time, holding each other, listening to the soft sound of their children breathing in the next room and feeling every tear-jerking, heart-swelling moment of the journey that had brought them here.
From a mistletoe bet in a small-town rink to center ice under championship lights—their girl had skated every inch of it with grace, grit, and love.
And tomorrow, they’d cheer her on to whatever came next—together, always together.