Page 127 of Check & Chase
He nods, avoiding eye contact. “She deserves to be happy. You both do.”
Before I can respond, he walks away, disappearing into the locker room.
I pull out my phone and text Emma.
Me:You’re not going to believe what just happened.
Game day. The energy at the arena is electric, crackling through the air like lightning before a storm. I’m feeding off it, bouncing on my toes in the tunnel as I count down the minutes until we hit the ice for warm-ups. Months of watching from the sidelines was torture—being so close to the game I love but unable to participate, reduced to cheerleader status while my body healed.
I need this like I need air.
The lights in the arena dim, and the crowd roars as our hype video plays on the Jumbotron. My teammates start filing toward the ice, each caught in their own pre-game ritual—some tapping sticks, others mumbling prayers or running through mental plays.
Mine is simple: three taps of my stick on each side of the tunnel, and then…
Emma.
She stands at the end of the player tunnel where it meets the bench, looking breathtaking in a blue dress that matches our team colors. Her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. The sight of her here, supporting me, makes something warm and bright expand in my chest.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” I say, unable to keep the grin off my face.
“Wouldn’t miss your comeback for anything,” she replies, reaching into her purse with hands that tremble slightly. “I brought you something.”
She holds out a delicate silver chain with a small blue figure skate dangling from it. I take it, turning the tiny charm over in my gloved hand. The skate is incredibly detailed despite its size, with miniature laces and a silver blade.
“It was mine,” she explains, her cheeks flushing slightly. “My mom gave it to me when I won my first competition. She said it would bring me luck.” She pauses, vulnerability flickering across her face. “I know it’s silly, but…”
“It’s not silly,” I interrupt, understanding the magnitude of this gift. This isn’t just jewelry—it’s a piece of her history, her dreams, the part of herself she’s learning to reclaim. “Could you…?”
She nods, stepping closer. I bow my head slightly as she reaches up to fasten the clasp behind my neck, her fingers warm against my skin. The small charm settles against my chest, under my jersey, right over my heart.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
Around us, players are filing onto the ice for warm-ups, the familiar sounds of skates on concrete and sticks tapping echoing through the tunnel. I should join them, but I can’t seem to tear myself away from her.
“For luck,” she whispers, standing on her tiptoes to kiss me quickly.
“Now I’m definitely scoring tonight,” I murmur against her lips.
She laughs, green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Promises, promises.”
I join my teammates on the ice, feeling invincible. The familiar sensation of blades cutting through fresh ice sends endorphins flooding through my system. Coach runs us through our usual warm-up drills, and my knee responds beautifully—no pain, just the slightest stiffness that fades as I move.
The game unfolds like a fever dream. The first two periods fly by in a blur of saves and missed opportunities, the kind of tight hockey that makes every shift matter. By the third period, we’re tied 2-2, and I still haven’t found the back of the net. My legs are starting to feel heavy, muscles remembering the demands of game-speed hockey after months away. The knee sends little warnings with each hard stop, reminders that I’m not quite back to full strength yet.
“How’s it feeling?” Coach asks as I come off for a line change, his eyes sharp with concern.
“Good,” I lie. It’s not good, but it’s not terrible either. Manageable. And I’d rather play through discomfort than sit on the bench for my comeback game.
“Two minutes. Then you’re up with Miller and Donny.”
My line gets the tap a few moments later, and I vault over the boards, instantly tracking the puck as it moves through the neutral zone. The crowd noise fades to white static as my focus narrows to the game. Donny battles for the puck along the boards, his smaller frame somehow winning against a defenseman fifty pounds heavier. He feeds it to Miller, who carries it into the offensive zone with smooth, powerful strides.
I position myself near the net, fighting through traffic and stick checks, reading the play as it develops. The defenseman shoves me, trying to clear me out of his goalie’s sightline. I push back, holding my ground, Emma’s charm pressing against my chest like a talisman.
Miller shoots, the puck ricochets off the goalie’s pad, and suddenly it’s right there in front of me. I don’t think; I just react, muscle memorytaking over as I redirect the puck with the precision that took years to develop.
The sound of the puck hitting the back of the net is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.
