Chapter 75: The Finals

The building felt different before I even stepped onto the ice

I stood in the tunnel with my stick in one hand and my helmet tucked under the other, listening to the roar of the crowd bounce through the walls and settle in my chest. Game one of the championship. One step from the thing every player in the league dreamed about and only a few ever reached.

The lights above the ice were so bright they looked unreal from where I stood.

Cassian was beside me, helmet on, jaw set, eyes forward.

I knew the second he glanced at me.

He turned fully then and smiled.

Just for me.

“Let’s go win the whole thing.”

I looked at him and felt the weight of everything at once. The championship. The crowd. The cameras. The knee that had not stopped reminding me it existed for weeks. My career. The pressure that had been building since the first round. And underneath all of it, the thing that made the rest of it bearable.

Cassian.

I nodded once. “Together.”

His mouth curved like he had expected that answer and liked it more than he should have.

Then the horn sounded and we stepped out onto the ice.

The noise in the arena nearly swallowed me whole.

The first thing I heard was the crowd. The second was the skate blades. The third was the way my own pulse had somehow gotten louder than both of them. I took one breath and forced myself to look around instead of down. The ice was bright. The stands were full. The finals banners were hanging from the rafters. Cameras were moving. Every seat seemed taken. Every eye seemed to be on us.

Biggest stage.

Brightest lights.

No room to hide.

Cassian skated a few feet ahead of me on the warm-up loop, stick tapping once against the ice before he sent the puck back to me on a clean angle. I caught it and returned it without thinking. His eyes found mine immediately after.

That was the part that steadied me.

Not the crowd.

Him.

We kept moving through warm-up like it was just another game, even though it was not. Every shot felt louder. Every pass felt sharper. The opposing bench looked locked in too, all the usual playoff intensity turned up a notch because this was the final stage and everyone knew it. No one was going to get anything easy.

On the bench, Danton kept his speech short.

He did not need to say much. He just reminded us to stay smart, stay clean, and play our game.

Cassian sat beside me, one knee bouncing once before he stilled it. He was focused, but I could tell he was keyed up. Not nervous. Driven. That was different. It made him look like he had a fire under his skin and nowhere to put it except on the puck.

He leaned toward me as the coach stepped away.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I looked at him. “You asking because you care or because you want my focus?”

He gave me that half-smile that always got under my skin. “Both.”

That was the answer I liked too much.

I looked back at the ice. “I am good.”

“Your knee?”

I kept my face neutral. “Fine.”

Cassian’s eyes sharpened slightly. He knew what fine meant when I said it like that.

The puck dropped.

We came out hard.

The first period was fast, clean, and brutal in the way only a championship game could be. Every hit landed like it mattered. Every board battle lasted longer than it should have. Their forecheck came in waves. Ours answered. The crowd rose after every rush, every save, every shot that hit the post and made the whole building gasp.

I felt my knee on the first long shift, then ignored it.

I had to.

Cassian and I were on together early, which meant we were taking the puck through center as a unit instead of waiting for the seams to open on their own. We had done this before. We had done it in the conference final, in the second round, in the games where the room had started believing in us as a line instead of two separate players who happened to work well together.

Tonight was different.

Tonight the other team had watched the film.

They knew what to take away.

Cassian still found a way through.

He caught me in stride midway through the first, moved the puck just ahead of my blade, and I shot before their defense could close. The goalie got a piece of it. Not enough.

The crowd roared.

Cassian glanced at me on the fly as we skated past each other after the shift change, and the look he gave me was almost too much for a public rink.

Too sharp.

Too warm.

Too much like he knew exactly what that shot meant for both of us.

I wanted to smile. I did not.

He did.

I saw it from the bench.

By the end of the first period, neither team had scored again, but the pace was already ugly enough to make the whole room feel like it had been dragged through a knife fight. Our goalie stood on his head twice. Their top line kept coming hard off the wing. One of their defensemen had already taken a run at Cassian that should have drawn a penalty and did not.

Cassian skated back to the bench and tossed me a look that said he had not forgotten.

I leaned in. “You are glaring.”

He tilted his head. “You are not?”

“That was a cheap hit.”

He looked back towards the ice. “I know.”

The second period opened worse.

They got one past our goalie on a rebound after a scramble in front. Their bench erupted. Ours tightened. Danton called out for cleaner exits, better support, less chasing. We answered with pressure.

Then came the part that mattered.

Cassian picked up the puck off a failed clearing attempt and carried it into the zone with speed. He cut across the top of the circle, drew two defenders, and slid it back to me at the point.

I saw the lane.

I shot.

The goalie blocked it, but the rebound popped right back into traffic. Cassian was already there. He buried it before the defenseman could react.

Goal.

The building exploded so hard I felt it in my knees.

Cassian turned on the ice and found me immediately. No hesitation. No search. Just straight to me, eyes bright, grin pulling free now because he could not help it.

He hit my shoulder with his glove and said, “That one was ugly.”

“It went in.”

He laughed and skated backward before the next line change. “That was not the point.”

I watched him go with my pulse still too fast.

That was the thing about him. He could make a goal feel like a private conversation in the middle of a building full of people.

The third period decided the game.

And not in our favor.

We came out flat for the first three minutes. Their top line pushed hard. Their defense pinched better. They controlled the neutral zone and started forcing us wide. We adjusted too late. One bad bounce. One scramble in front. One shot from the circle that found the top corner.

Then another.

Our bench went quiet.

Cassian sat beside me after the second goal with his jaw locked tight and his hands wrapped around his stick so hard his knuckles were white.

I looked at him. “We still have time.”

He did not answer right away. His eyes were on the ice.

Then he said, “I know.”

There was a third goal with just under eight minutes left.

That one hurt.

I felt it in the room more than in the score. The crowd, which had been shaking the building apart all night, got thinner around the edges. Our bench got smaller. The energy changed. Not gone. Just different. Harder. Meaner. The kind of shift that makes players force things they should not.

Cassian and I got one more rush together. He gave me the puck clean. I fired. It hit the post.

The sound was ugly.

Cassian turned his head towards me just long enough to register the miss, then back to the play without saying a word.

I could tell he wanted to say something. So did I.

Neither of us did.

The final minute came too fast.

Empty net.

Our bench standing.

The whole arena on its feet again, but this time for the wrong side of the feeling.

I had one more look across the ice as the last seconds bled out.

Cassian was still moving. Still pushing. Still trying to make something happen even though the game had already shifted out of reach.

The horn sounded.

That was it.

We had lost game one of the Finals.