Chapter 79 He's Back
AVA
The day of the game is here. And while the crowd is roaring with anticipation, and the stadium lights shine brighter than ever, it feels like a world away for me. The whole arena hums like a living thing, buzzing and electric, but I feel suspended outside of it, wrapped in my own quiet storm. I'm not on the ice with Liam, not in the locker room stealing a quick kiss for luck, not brushing invisible lint off his jersey just for an excuse to touch him. I’m tucked into the stands instead, half hidden in the sea of fans, my phone clutched tightly in my hands, fingers hovering over the screen like it might deliver him safely through the night.
I look at the last text I sent him: "You’ve got this. You’re amazing, no matter what." The words stare back at me, simple and steady. They feel small compared to the magnitude of this night, compared to the roar shaking the rafters. But they’re all I have. A handful of letters carrying every ounce of my love, my faith, my fear. I imagine his phone lighting up in the locker room, his jaw tightening in that focused way he gets, maybe a small smile tugging at his mouth before he locks everything down and steps onto the ice.
It’s strange, watching him from a distance, knowing he’s out there in the heat of the game, back in his element after everything. The injury. The doubt. The silence that crept into our lives when the future felt uncertain. I remember the man I first met, all sharp edges and relentless confidence. He annoyed me that day with that unshakeable swagger, like he already knew how every story ended and he’d decided he’d win. I remember how we promised to stay out of each other’s way while living under the same roof, drawing invisible lines we both pretended not to cross. I remember helping him find his way back to the ice, pushing him when he wanted to give up, sitting beside him when the frustration burned too bright. And I remember the way he’d walk off after local victories, helmet tucked under his arm, that gleam in his eyes that said he belonged there. That the ice answered to him. But today feels different. Bigger. Fragile in a way those games never were.
I bite my lip as the puck drops, my heart racing so hard it feels visible. The scrape of skates against ice cuts through the noise, sharp and familiar. I watch him glide, that effortless, powerful movement that first stole my breath. He moves like the ice was poured just for him, like gravity negotiated a special agreement. Pride swells in my chest so fiercely it almost hurts. I want him to win. I need him to win. Not just for the trophy or the headlines, but to silence the whispers that he wouldn’t come back the same. To prove to himself that he isn’t defined by what tried to break him. But beneath that fierce hope is something softer, quieter. I want him safe. I want him whole. No more hospital rooms. No more late night panic spirals. No more pretending we aren’t terrified of losing everything.
The game intensifies quickly, players darting across the ice in a blur of color and speed. The sound of sticks clashing, bodies colliding, the puck ricocheting off boards, it all blends into a chaotic symphony. I scan the ice until I find his jersey. It’s him. Always him. Even in a crowd of giants, I would know the way he moves. He throws himself into the play with everything he has, but I see it. The tiny hesitation before a hard check. The fraction of a second where he chooses precision over recklessness. He’s playing smart. He’s playing careful. A part of him still remembers the pain.
As the minutes tick by, I feel an overwhelming urge to be closer. To press my hand to his chest and remind him that he’s more than this game. That if the ice cracked open beneath him, I would still be here. That we’re building something bigger than any championship banner. But I can’t be the distraction he doesn’t need. He has to trust himself out there. So I sit. I watch. I breathe when I can.
The clock winds down, each second louder than the last. The score is tight, uncomfortably tight. The air in the arena feels thick enough to choke on. I press my hand to my stomach without thinking, grounding myself, whispering silent encouragement that probably never leaves my lips. He’s doing this. He fought his way back here. He earned every second on that ice. This isn’t just about a win. It’s about reclaiming something that was almost taken from him.
The final moments stretch endlessly. Everything slows and speeds up at the same time. I can’t track the puck, can’t track the strategy. I just feel it, a tension coiled in my chest like the entire universe is balanced on a blade’s edge. Then the crowd shifts. A collective inhale. I glance up at the massive screen just in time to see him break free.
He’s skating toward the goal, and there’s nothing hesitant about him now. His body is pure focus, pure determination, every ounce of doubt burned away. Time fractures. The defense closes in. The goalie drops. Liam draws back and shoots.
The sound is almost delicate. The clean strike of stick against puck. The faint swish as it slices through air. A heartbeat of silence so complete it feels sacred.
Then the net ripples.
The arena explodes.
Noise crashes over me in a tidal wave, people leaping to their feet, strangers screaming and hugging and spilling drinks in celebration. But I’m frozen for half a second, staring at the screen as it replays the shot. He did it. He actually did it.
A breath shudders out of me, one I didn’t realize I’d been holding for what feels like the entire season. Tears blur my vision before I can stop them. Relief slams into me first, then pride, then something so deep and overwhelming I have to press my hand to my mouth to keep from sobbing outright.
“He did it,” I whisper, even though no one can hear me over the chaos.
The final whistle blows, sharp and definitive. Game over. Victory sealed. His team surges onto the ice, gloves flying, sticks raised. The scoreboard flashes confirmation in giant numbers, but I don’t need it. I saw it happen.
Through the celebration, through the blur of teammates and flashing cameras, I search for him. It doesn’t take long. He finds me the way he always does, like there’s an invisible thread tying us together no matter the distance. He skates toward the boards near where I’m standing, carving a path through the frenzy.
And then he’s there.
Right in front of me, separated only by the glass and a few feet of air.
His helmet is off, hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from exertion. He looks exhausted and alive all at once. His eyes lock onto mine, and the rest of the world dissolves. I don’t know what to say. There are too many words, too many emotions crowding my throat. So I just smile at him through my tears, letting them fall without apology.
His expression shifts when he sees me crying. His own composure cracks, just slightly. His voice is rough when he speaks, muffled by the noise but clear enough for me to read his lips, to hear him in my head.
“I love you.”
It isn’t casual. It isn’t thrown into the air lightly. It’s anchored. Solid. A vow disguised as three simple words. A promise that tonight was never just about hockey. It was about coming back. About proving something to himself. About the life waiting for us beyond the rink.
I can’t answer properly. I just nod and cry harder, my chest aching with pride. He did this. He walked back onto the ice where he once fell and made it his again. The ice is still his domain. The crowd may cheer now, but I saw the nights he doubted. I saw the fear. And he rose anyway.
“I’ll see you soon. I promise.” He smiles, softer now, before turning back to his team, who pull him into the celebration, lifting him into the center of it all.
I stay where I am, heart pounding, tears drying on my cheeks. I’m here. I’m waiting. The arena is still shaking with victory, but inside me there’s a quieter triumph unfolding.
This moment belongs to him.
But the future?
That belongs to us.