Page 36 of Spring Break with a Slap Shot

The crowd's on their feet, the noise deafening. I catch Grace clapping wildly.

With four minutes left, Coach taps my line. "Go win this thing, Miles."

I hop over the boards, hungry for it now. We cycle the puck in their zone, wearing down their defense. Asher works it free along the boards, finds me in the slot. Time slows down. I see the goalie shift his weight slightly to his right, opening up the left side of the net.

I fire.

The puck hits the back of the net with a sound I swear I can hear over the explosion of the crowd.

4-3.

My teammates mob me, a tangle of arms and sticks and raw joy. But my eyes find Grace in the stands, on her feet. She’s beaming like I'm their own son who just scored.

We hold on for the final minutes, every blocked shot and cleared puck bringing us closer to the win. When the final buzzer sounds, the relief and triumph surge through me like electricity. We've taken a 2-1 lead in the series, coming back from certain defeat.

The customary handshake line, media interviews, locker room celebration – I go through it all in a happy daze. But there's an urgency building inside me that has nothing to do with hockey.

"Epic comeback, Lucky!" A reporter shoves a microphone in my face. "What changed in the second period?"

I could give the standard answer about teamwork and resilience. Instead, I hear myself say, "I remembered what matters."

Later, showered and changed, I step out of the arena's player exit. A small group of fans wait for autographs. I sign jerseys and pucks, pose for photos, but my mind's already racing ahead.

Grace is waiting at the edge of the crowd. I make my way over to them.

"Hi, Mrs. MacIntyre," I say, hugging her.

"Seemed like you found your way back to yourself out there," Grace says with that knowing look moms somehow perfect.

"Thanks to you," I admit. "That talk we had about things worth having... it hit home tonight."

"Sometimes we need a reminder of what's important."

"Right. I've got to go," I tell her, sudden urgency rushing through me. "There's somewhere I need to be."

Grace's eyes twinkle. "Would this somewhere happen to involve a certain meteorologist?"

I feel a smile spreading across my face – not my practiced camera-ready one, but something real and a little vulnerable. "If I'm lucky."

"Luck's got nothing to do with it," she says. "Just be honest with her."

I nod, already backing toward the parking lot where my Porsche waits. "I will. Thank you – for coming tonight, for everything."

Chapter 19-Harmony

The wipers can barely keep up with the deluge, smearing raindrops across my windshield in hypnotic arcs. I white-knuckle the steering wheel of my Subaru, leaning forward as if those extra inches might help me see through the wall of water. The rain is my element—I've spent my entire career predicting it, tracking it, respecting its power—but right now, it's just another obstacle between me and Dakota. Between me and what I should have said weeks ago.

My GPS announces that I'm fifteen minutes from the ice rink. Fifteen minutes from potentially the biggest moment of my life. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. Three days ago, I was holed up in my office in Norman, tracking thishurricane's every move, watching with professional detachment as it barreled toward the South Carolina coast. Toward him.

Then something changed—in the hurricane's path and in me. When the storm made that unexpected eastern turn, sparing Charleston and the surrounding areas from its worst, I felt a relief that went beyond professional satisfaction. It was personal. It was about Dakota's house in Pawley's Island, about Love Beach where we'd walked that one perfect night, about the ice rink where he was probably finishing his game right now. The places that had become more than data points on my maps.

I check the radar on my phone at a stoplight. The system is moving through, but the heaviest band is right over Charleston—right over me—dumping sheets of rain that make the world beyond my windshield a watercolor blur. Classic. The meteorologist drives through the worst of the storm to get to the man she loves. There's probably a weather joke in there somewhere.

Love. The word still catches in my throat. Is that what this is? This ache that's been hollowing me out since our fight three weeks ago? Since I told him his lifestyle was too unpredictable, too chaotic for someone like me who lives by data and forecasts? Since I flew back to Oklahoma telling myself it was for the best?

The arena parking lot comes into view, a vast expanse of asphalt shimmering with puddles under the floodlights. I pull into a spot near the players' exit, the same door I've watched Dakota emerge from after games when I visited before. Before everything imploded.

My phone pings with a score update. Final: Charleston Renegades 4, Atlanta Wolves 2. Dakota scored the game-winning goal. A smile breaks across my face despite the nerves rioting in my stomach. That's my—no, not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever if I'm too late.

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