Page 78 of Glitz & Goals

The arena buzzes with electricity, every seat filled with nervous energy and hope. Game seven of the second round of the Stanley Cup championship. Due to Ranger’s skill and leadership after Grady’s injury, the team made it past the opening round for the first time in over a decade. Dante and Sergio are thrilled. But the stakes couldn’t be higher, and you can feel it in the air, like static before a storm. Fans are shouting, waving their foam fingers, and banging on the glass. The Venom have clawed their way here against all odds, and now, just one win stands between them and the Conference Finals.

I tug at the hem of my jersey, suddenly hyperaware of how it feels against my skin. It’s not just any jersey—it’s Grady’s jersey from his playing days with the Thunder. The number 19 stretches across my back, his name stitched above it in bold letters. It’s vintage, slightly faded, but it feels like I’m wearing a piece of him, a piece of his history.

Knova elbows me, yanking me out of my thoughts. “If you keep fidgeting like that, you’re going to wear a hole in it.” She nods toward the ice, where the players are warming up. “Focus, Viv. It’s game time.”

She’s perched on the edge of her seat; fists clenched like she’s ready to jump the glass and take the opening face-off herself. On her other side, Mom sits with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her calm smile hiding the fact that she’s just as much of a nervous wreck as the rest of us.

I glance at the bench, where Grady paces like a caged tiger, barking out commands to the players. He’s completely in hiselement—calm, commanding, magnetic. The crowd noise fades as I watch him, and my chest tightens with pride.

That’s my man down there.

The PA announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, and the Jumbotron lights up with highlights of Grady’s playing days. “As the Venom take on the Thunder tonight, we’re reminded of Coach Grady Metcalfe’s incredible legacy—a man who gave his all on the ice for his team and now brings that same passion to the bench. Welcome to the Stanley Cup playoffs Vegas style, Coach Metcalfe.”

The crowd erupts in cheers, and I can’t help but smile as Knova mutters, “Damn straight.”

But my smile wavers as I glance at Grady again, his name on my back and ring on my finger. He’s not just a coach or a former player to me. He’s everything, and that realization scares me more than any game ever could.

The game is brutal. Hard hits, fast plays, and the kind of relentless back-and-forth that leaves the crowd breathless. The Thunder are no joke—they’re as sharp and hungry as we are, and every second feels like a fight to survive. The Venom scored early in the second period to tie it up, but now, with just minutes left in the third, the scoreboard remains frozen at 3-3.

Knova is gripping her seat so hard I half expect the armrests to snap off. “Come on, little brother. Come on, come on, come on,” she chants under her breath as he charges toward the boards to battle for the puck. Mom, ever composed, wrings her hands in her lap. Even Kingsley, cool and collected as always, leans forward slightly, her lips pressed in a thin line.

I should be focused on the game, on Viktor’s seamless breakouts and Knight’s fearless grit in the corners. But my eyes keep drifting to the bench. To him.

Grady’s pacing like his life depends on it, his jaw tight, his hands moving as he shouts commands to the players. Even inthe chaos, he’s a rock, keeping his team grounded and fighting. I watch the way Ranger leans in to consult with him and how Dad gives a quick nod from the end of the bench. Grady absorbs it all, every bit of information, every detail, and channels it into his team.

And then, with two minutes left on the clock, it happens.

The Thunder capitalize on a bad bounce off the boards, and their captain sends a blistering slapshot past Owen. The red light flashes, the horn blares, and the few Thunder fans who made the trip erupt into cheers. My heart sinks as the Venom players deflate, their shoulders slumping as they skate back to the bench.

Knova groans, burying her face in her hands. “No. No, no, no. They can’t go out like this. Not after everything. I hate the Thunder! They can go blow wind and crack their ass cheeks!”

I don’t say anything because I can’t. My throat feels tight, and my chest aches as I watch Grady clap each player on the back, urging them to keep pushing, to give it everything they’ve got in these final moments.

My dad pulls Owen, throwing every ounce of effort into tying the game. Viktor fires a shot from the blue line, and for a moment, it looks like it’s going in—but the Thunder’s goalie snags it with a glove save that sends the crowd into a frenzy.

The final buzzer sounds, and just like that, it’s over.

I stand there, frozen, as the small cotillion of Thunder fans scream bloody murder. The Venom bench is quiet, the players staring at the ice or each other, their disappointment palpable. Damn, we were so freaking close. Grady stands at the edge of the bench, his hands on his hips, his head bowed.

My chest aches as I watch him, so alone in this moment, even surrounded by his team. I wish I could be down there with him, slipping my hands over his tense shoulders, easing the weight of the loss, whispering in his ear that he’s not in thisalone. That tonight doesn’t define him or the incredible season he built. Instead, I’m up here, helpless, watching the man I care about more than I want to admit carry the crushing burden of everyone’s expectations on his back. It kills me that I can’t do anything to make it better, that I can’t be the one to steady him when he’s given everything he has.

But then he straightens, shaking Ranger’s hand and clapping Dad on the shoulder. As the players leave the ice, he walks to the tunnel, his back straight, his chin high. He doesn’t look defeated—just determined.

I watch him go, the name Metcalfe on my back feeling heavier than ever. The tears in my eyes aren’t just for the game—they’re for him. For the man who gave everything tonight. For the man I’m marrying, even if he never wins a Stanley Cup.

The crowd begins to thin out as fans trickle toward the exits, some jubilant in their Thunder jerseys, most subdued in Venom colors. I’m still rooted in place, trying to gather myself, when I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder.

I turn to find two women standing there, both with the same dark hair and piercing eyes as Grady. One of them—slightly taller, with a confident stance—smiles warmly. “Vivian, right? I’m Laura, and this is Erin. We’re Grady’s sisters.”

I blink, caught off guard. “Oh! Hi, yes, that’s me. I—wow, I didn’t know you were here. You should have called me! We could’ve sat together.”

Laura waves a hand dismissively. “We didn’t want to impose. We wanted to surprise him, not crash your night.”

Erin nods, grinning. “Besides, we figured you’d have your hands full with all the playoff chaos. But you know, we didn’t realize you’d be rocking his old jersey. Nice touch.”

My cheeks warm as I glance down at the faded team logo. “I thought it might bring him luck.” I pause, then smirk. “Maybenext time you two can let me know you’re coming so we can coordinate matching outfits.”

They laugh, and for a moment, the weight in my chest lightens. It’s easy to see how much they adore their brother, the pride shining in their eyes even after a tough loss.

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