Chapter 156 TYLER

Chapter 156 TYLER
Twenty one days. Sixteen hours. That was how much time was left until the finals in March. And today's playoff would decide whether Westfield got to be a part of it or not.

I exhaled slowly and kept pacing.

I was in the locker room, trying to pull myself together before going out to join the rest of the team. Not on the ice, just in the arena. Coach had made it clear he didn't want me playing until the final game, when I'd have had enough time to properly recover, so everything today rested on Peter and the others. I knew that. I understood the logic.

But understanding something and being okay with it were two completely different things, and right now I was nowhere near okay. This wasn't some regular season game where a loss just meant you tried harder next time. This was it. Win and we move forward. Lose and we're done, and I'd never get the chance to get back on the ice again this season.

"Don't tell me we're getting lost inside our head again," Harper's voice came from the doorway and I turned around.

"Hey," I said, trying to keep my face neutral.

She gave me a look that said she wasn't buying it for a second, then smiled and rolled her eyes. "Relax, Ty. The boys have carried this team through the whole season. What's one more game? And it's against Westbrook, a team you've already beaten twice."

I crossed the room and pulled her into me, pressing a kiss to her lips. "You know, you have a way with words."

"Or," she said, poking my chest, "I just know how to handle Tyler Mercer."

I laughed, kissing her again, and some of the tension drained out of my shoulders just like that.

"Come on," Harper said when I finally pulled back. "The game's about to start."

She turned and walked out, taking my hand as she went.

I was grateful for her. More than she probably knew. She'd shown up to every single practice session, every exercise drill, no matter how small or routine, just to make sure I was following her mom's recovery plan properly. I'd been eating right, staying hydrated, not pushing past the limits that had been set for me, and if I was being honest, the only reason any of it felt manageable was because she was there making sure I didn't slip. But lately there was something sitting just beneath the surface with her, something she wasn't saying, and I hadn't been able to figure out what it was. Every time I thought I was close to reading it, she'd smile or say something and it would disappear.

I tightened my hand around hers as we walked into the arena.

The game was already in full swing.

We found seats up in the stands instead of going to the bench. Coach had suggested it, said it might be less frustrating for me to watch from a distance rather than sitting right at ice level where every play would feel like I should be in it. I wasn't sure he was right, but I didn't argue. Harper settled beside me, her shoulder pressed against mine, and for a few minutes I just focused on tracking the puck.

Westbrook was good. Better than I remembered from the last two times we'd played them, or maybe they'd gotten sharper since then. Either way, by the end of the first quarter they were up by one and my jaw was tight.

"They're just warming up," Harper said without looking at me, like she could feel the tension radiating off me.

"Westbrook isn't warming up," I muttered. "They're playing like they have something to prove."

"So does our team,” she said, finally looking at me. "Peter's not going to let them walk away with this. You know that."

I did know that.

I'd watched Peter in enough practices to know how he played when his back was against the wall. He was competitive in a way that came out most when the pressure was highest, which was exactly what today needed. But knowing that didn't change what I was seeing right now.

Westbrook wasn't just playing harder. They were controlling the pace like they already knew where everything was headed, and right now we were reacting instead of leading.

By the time the buzzer sounded for halftime, Westbrook was still ahead by one. The arena filled with the noise of people shifting in their seats, conversations picking up, the general restlessness of a crowd that wasn't sure which way things were going to go.

"Hot chocolate?" I asked, turning to Harper to distract my thoughts.

She blinked, then smiled. "Yeah, actually. That sounds good."

We made our way down toward the concession area, weaving through the people filing out of the rows. There was a small stand near the far end being run by what looked like a couple of junior students, a folding table with a hand-painted sign of Westfield colors and a bucket of single-stem flowers sitting right next to the drinks.

The kid behind the table grinned when we walked up. "Two hot chocolates? And hey, won't you grab a flower for your girl? Valentine's Day's tomorrow, man. One dollar."

I stopped.

Tomorrow.

I looked at Harper, who had already turned to look at me with an expression that was trying very hard not to be amused. "Don't worry about it," she said quickly, waving her hand. "We'll take the two hot chocolates, thanks."

"No," I said, already reaching into my pocket. "I'll take one of the flowers too."

The kid's grin widened as he handed it over.

I passed it to Harper and she took it, shaking her head with a small laugh. "Tyler, I said don't worry about it."

"I forgot," I said plainly. "Valentine's Day is tomorrow and I completely forgot, and that's not okay."

"It's fine, really."

"It's not." I handed her the hot chocolate and we started walking back. "It's our first Valentine's Day together. That actually matters."

She went quiet for a second, turning the flower over in her fingers. "I wasn't going to bring it up."

"I know you weren't." I looked at her. "That's kind of the thing, Harper. You were just going to let it go and not say anything."

She gave me a tight lipped smile and glanced away. "I'm not upset."

"You're not not upset either."

She laughed at that, a real one, and it loosened something in my chest. "I just didn't want to add anything else to your plate right now. You have enough going on."

"You're not adding to my plate," I said. "You're my girlfriend. Valentine's Day is tomorrow and we're going to do something, even if I have to pull it together tonight." I nudged her gently. "You deserve that."

She looked up at me and for a second she just studied my face, like she was deciding something. Then she leaned up and kissed me on the cheek. "Okay."

"Okay," I repeated.

We got back to our seats just as the second half was starting. Harper tucked herself against my side, the flower resting across her knee, and I tried to refocus on the ice.

Peter was on form. I could see it from the first shift of the second half, the way he was reading the play before it developed, positioning himself half a second ahead of everyone else. That was what made him good. Not just the skill, but the thinking behind it. Westbrook's defense was aggressive and they weren't giving ground easily, but Peter kept probing, kept moving, and then he found the gap and drove it through and the puck hit the back of the net.

The arena erupted.

Harper grabbed my arm. "See? What did I tell you?"

I was already on my feet. "Let's go, Peter!"

She was laughing beside me as I sat back down, and for a few minutes the weight I'd been carrying all day lifted enough that I could just watch the game like a normal person.

But Westbrook answered back quickly. A fast break down the right side that our defense read two beats too slow, and suddenly it was tied again with less than ten minutes on the clock.

The arena got tense in that specific way it does when everyone in it knows time is running out and neither side is willing to give an inch. Every whistle felt louder. Every stoppage felt longer. Harper had stopped talking and was just watching, which meant even she felt it.

Eight minutes. Six. Four.

Peter had the puck in the offensive zone and I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, watching him work the angles. He passed off to the left, took it back, and I could see him calculating. But the shot didn't come and Westbrook cleared it out and we were back to defense.

Two minutes left.

Westbrook pushed forward and Jax set himself in the crease, tracking the puck as it moved across the blue line. Their winger wound up and let it go, a low hard shot along the ice, and Jax went down for it.

It went under him.

The red light came on.

The buzzer followed ten seconds later.

The arena went quiet in a way that felt almost physical, like the sound had been pulled out of the room all at once. I sat back in my seat and stared at the ice. The Westbrook players were celebrating at the far end, their voices carrying across the silence. Our guys stood where they were, not moving, not talking.

Westbrook had won.

Harper didn't say anything. She just slipped her hand into mine and held it, and I let her, because there was nothing either of us could say that would make this feel like anything other than what it was.

We were out.