Page 127 of The Best Friend Power Play

That's good. A simple pass, but it went well. I'll take it.

After getting full medical clearance late yesterday, I'm counting my blessings to even be on the starting lineup.

Donovan passes to Fraser, who expertly maneuvers past two defenders and fires a sharp shot into the net, scoring the first goal of the game.

The arena bursts into a deafening roar as fans leap to their feet, their thunderous applause echoing off the rafters.

I race over to join my teammates as we flank Fraser from all sides with a round of exuberant hugs, high-fives, and helmet taps.

But the best part?

The best part is when I skate away and look up into the stands. Everything—the noise, the people, the commotion—fades to back and all I see is Hannah.

She's jumping up and down excitedly, but it's what she does next—once she's sure I've got my eyes locked on her—that damn near knocks me out of my skates.

She unzips her black puffer jacket and she's…she's…I can't believe it…she's wearing my 44 jersey!

My stomach flips, and my whole body ignites with the biggest dopamine rush. If I thought seeing her wearing my shirts was great, this is a level of euphoria I didn't think was possible.

I want to go over to her right now, touch her, kiss her, hold her in my arms, and tell her how much that gesture means to me. How, for as long as I live, I will never, ever forget how she's made me feel in this moment.

But since I can't do any of that, I point my stick at her and tap my chest a few times.

The crowd's roar intensifies, because yeah, the story of our wedding has been one of the biggest news stories in the sports world this week.

Hannah shapes her hands into a heart, and I don't think I've ever loved her more than I do right now.

The game continues.

Despite our early goal, the Steelers regroup to tie the score before the end of the first period.

The atmosphere is charged with tension going into the second period. Quick line changes and strategic plays dominate the ice.

Our defense is tight. But so is theirs.

The forwards can't find an opening.

Scores remain locked at 1-1 with less than sixty seconds to go in the second period. The crowd is on the edge of their seats.

The Steeler's forward, Gavin Lachlan, manages to break through, pushing hard toward the goal. I skate furiously to intercept, my heart pounding and muscles tense.

As he prepares to shoot, I dive to block the puck.

Everything happens in a flash—the sharp scrape of skates, the cold bite of the ice, the heavy thud of bodies colliding.

I stop him from taking the shot, but a sharp pain shoots through my leg as I hit the ice hard.

I hear a blow of the referee whistle and play stops.

The pain intensifies.

Two medics rush onto the ice, one carrying a medical bag, the other a stretcher.

They ask me a few questions to gauge my level of pain, and I manage to mumble out responses as one of them gently palpates my left hip to determine the extent of the injury.

They say something to each other that I don't catch, then one of them tells me, "We're going to move you onto a stretcher, Culver. We need to stabilize your hip, so try to relax as much as you can. It's important to keep everything still."

"We'll get you off the ice and to the medical room for a better look," the other one says.

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