Page 130 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Snap.

Caught.

Whistle.

I roll onto my back, puck clutched to my chest.

The clock ticks.

Three.

Two.

One.

BUZZ.

WE WIN!

The horn roars. The crowd surges like a tidal wave—people leap to their feet, screaming, sobbing, pounding the glass. Fans throw their arms around strangers, beer flies, hats hit the ice. The whole arena vibrates with noise so deafening it swallows my thoughts.

I drop to my knees as the bench clears. Bodies slam into me—James, Parker, Ethan, Mikey. We collapse in a tangled heap, shouting, crying, howling like wild animals who finally tasted blood.

“We’re fucking legends!” James screams over the chaos.

Music blares. Lights spin. The PA echoes: “The Detroit Acers are your STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS!”

It’s the sound of everything we’ve fought for.

The Oilers line up. We skate to center ice, one by one, shaking hands. It’s tradition. It’s respect. It’s brutal grace.

Their captain looks me in the eye. “Hell of a game, Chadwick.”

“You too,” I reply, heart pounding.

They skate off, heads high.

We stay.

The red carpet unrolls in a streak of crimson under the floodlights, unfurling across the center of the ice like destiny itself. Flashbulbs explode from every angle, lighting the rink like a rock concert. The noise is still ear splitting—drums, horns, fans chanting names while pounding the boards.

Then the announcer's voice booms over the speakers: “The Conn Smythe Trophy, awarded to the most valuable player of the playoffs... goes to Alex Chadwick!”

My heart lurches. The guys erupt, banging their sticks on the ice, hollering my name. The fans join in.

"Chadwick! Chadwick!"

My chest tightens as Connor and James shove me forward, laughing, jostling.

Alone on the carpet, under the lights, in front of twenty thousand roaring fans. And her.

I take a breath—and step into the moment and proudly raise the trophy. Over the roar of the crowd, I catch Coach Stephens’ voice from behind me, low but fierce: “Well deserved.”

Then—the Stanley Cup.

The announcer’s voice shakes the rafters: “Ladies and gentlemen... the Stanley Cup Champions—your Detroit Acers!”

The silver trophy gleams under the lights as it’s brought to center ice. Coach steps forward first, lifting it off its pedestal like it weighs nothing.

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