Page 106 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
Jamie snorts. "Fucking savage, Cap."
But Boston isn't done. They tie it up seven minutes into the second on a power play goal that deflects off Kevin's skate—the kind of fluky goal that can break your spirit if you let it. As their players celebrate, I skate over to our goalie.
"Shake it off, Murphy," I tell him. "Shit happens. We get the next one."
"My fault, Cap. I should've had that."
"Bullshit. Keep playing your game."
The crowd's energy shifts palpably. This is the moment—1-1 in Game 7, when seasons hang in the balance and heroes are made or forgotten. I catch Tessa's eye in the observation box, and she taps her chest twice. Trust the process. Trust each other.
Boston scores again three minutes later on a breakaway that comes from our own turnover. 2-1, and suddenly the building feels like a fucking funeral.
"Timeout!" Martinez screams, and we gather around the bench like soldiers regrouping after taking casualties.
"Listen to me," Martinez starts, but I step forward.
"Coach, can I have them?"
He nods, stepping back. This is why they pay me to wear the C.
I look around at these guys—my brothers, my chosen family, the men who had our backs during the Harrison crisis.
"You know what the difference is between us and them?" I ask, my voice carrying over the crowd noise. "They're playing not to lose. We're playing for something bigger. We're playing for each other. For the culture we've built. For proving that doing things the right way fucking matters."
"Hell yes," Cole growls.
"Boston thinks they know what we're made of because I turned them down twice. They think we're soft. They think love makes you weak." I grip my stick harder. "Time to show them how wrong they are."
Jamie grins. "Let's go ruin their fucking season, boys."
The third period is when everything we've built gets tested. Boston throws everything at us—cycle after cycle, shot after shot, the kind of relentless pressure that separates championship teams from pretenders. But something's different now. We're not just defending. We're hunting.
With eight minutes left, Kevin strips the puck from their defenseman and starts a rush that ends with Alexei scoring on a wrister that nearly breaks the net. 2-2, and the building explodes like someone just announced free beer and pizza.
"That's what I'm fucking talking about!" I shout, pulling Alexei into a crushing hug. "Beauty!"
But Boston answers back immediately, pressing hard for the go-ahead goal. Their top line controls the puck for what feels like an eternity, cycling, probing, looking for the tiniest gap in our defense. With five minutes left, they get a 2-on-1 that should result in a goal, but Murphy makes the save of his life, sprawling across the crease to rob their sniper.
"Holy shit, Murph!” I scream, tapping his pads as we skate past. "Fucking unreal!"
"Not done yet, Cap!"
The clock becomes our enemy—every second ticking by without a goal for either team, every faceoff crucial, every line change strategic. This is playoff hockey distilled to its purest form: skill, will, and the ability to perform when everything matters.
With two minutes left, we get our chance. Boston's tired from sustained pressure, and their defenseman makes the mistake of trying to clear the puck up the middle instead of playing it safe along the boards. Jamie intercepts it and immediately looks for me trailing the play.
Time slows down like it does in the movies. I see the pass coming, see their goalie cheating slightly to his left, see the five-hole opening that exists for maybe half a second. But instead of shooting, I do what champions do—I make the unselfish play.
Cole is crashing the net, completely uncovered because their defense is focused on me. I slide the puck across the crease, Cole taps it in, and twenty thousand people lose their collective minds.
3-2, Chicago. Game 7. Two minutes left.
The celebration is chaos—bodies flying, sticks raised, pure joy exploding across our bench. But I find myself looking up at the observation box, where Tessa is jumping up and down like she just won the lottery. Our eyes meet across the arena, and she mouths "I love you" in a way that makes my chest feel like it might burst.
This is what we built. This is what choosing each other looks like under ultimate pressure.
The final two minutes are an eternity of defensive hockey, blocked shots, and the kind of team unity that can't be taught or bought. When the buzzer finally sounds, the dam breaks completely.
