Page 122 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Final minute. Six-on-five. They pull their goalie. Pressure. Chaos.

Block. Smother. Clear.

The buzzer sounds.

We win.

The scoreboard flashes red, the final buzzer cutting through the chaos like a war horn. Fans are singing, jumping, and hugging strangers. Streamers shoot into the air, confetti starts falling from the rafters, and the house DJ blasts “We Will Rock You” over the speakers while the jumbotron flashes: ACERS TO THE CUP!

The announcers are going wild with “The Detroit Acers have done it! They’re heading to the Stanley Cup Finals!” Their voices are competing with the fans chanting our name, “DEE-TROIT ACERS!”

Our bench empties. The boys swarm the ice, gloves flying, helmets tossed. It’s madness, a beautiful, earned madness. I don’t even register the slap on my back from Ethan, the bear hug from James, or Connor hollering, “Let’s goooooo!”.

My eyes just scan through it all looking for her.

She’s there with Lizzie, standing just off to the side while Coach Stephens is being swarmed by reporters and flashing cameras for post-game interviews.

The team begins clearing the ice, whooping and laughing as they head toward the tunnel. A few of the guys—Connor, Dillon, even Mikey—slap hands with fans along the way. As they pass Nina and Lizzie, they pause for quick high-fives and victory grins. James leans in and says, "Nice pregame pep talk, Doc," before jogging backward into the tunnel.

I approach her, my chest still heaving from adrenaline. She steps forward without hesitation, wraps her arms around me, and pulls me in for a quick but full-bodied hug.

"That was awesome," she says against my ear. "See ya inside."

Then she steps back with a smile and gives me a subtle wink before I disappear into the tunnel.

Back in the locker room, it’s a zoo. Guys are shouting over music, spraying champagne, jerseys half-off, towels flying. Coach gives a quick speech and then lets us soak in the moment.

Tonight, we weren’t just a team. We were a damn storm.

We’re going for it all.

Next stop: the Cup.

Chapter thirty-three

Nina

Thecelebrationroarsdownthe hallway, but here in my office, it’s just me—the scratch of my pen, the buzz of the lights, the hammer of my heartbeat refusing to slow.

I should still be out there, soaking in the biggest win of the season. Instead, I'm anchored to this desk, trying to finish my notes with shaking hands.

I told myself I needed a minute to breathe. It’s been half an hour.

The walls feel closer. The reports and performance plans blur together. Pride battles fear. Joy tangles with uncertainty.

They did it. We did it. And I’m still standing on the edge of a decision that could change everything.

The doorknob rattles.

I glance up, heart stopping in my chest.

Alex.

He’s still half in his gear with shoulder pads loosened, hair damp with sweat, and cheeks flushed from adrenaline and effort. His eyes find mine immediately, and for a moment, neither of us says anything.

Then he steps inside and closes the door quietly behind him.

My throat tightens.

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