Chapter 220: We Wonnn!

The twenty-minute intermission before overtime felt like an eternity. Nobody in the suite dared to move.

Even my mother refused to sit down, her eyes fixed on the television screen as the commentators breathlessly analyzed the miracle tie-game.

​The horn blared, signaling the start of sudden-death overtime. Twenty minutes on the clock. Next goal wins the Stanley Cup. First mistake loses everything.

​The ice cleared, and the starters glided into position.

​On screen, Reid’s chest was heaving beneath his jersey. His face was slick with sweat, his fair hair clinging damp against his forehead, but those dark grey eyes were sharp and deadly. He wasn’t playing like a man running on fumes; he was playing like an Alpha who had already decided how this story ended.

​The puck dropped, and overtime instantly devolved into a chaotic, terrifying war of attrition.

​The Dark Knights came out flying, their home crowd driving them into a frenzy. Three minutes in, Miller had to pull off a miraculous, acrobatic glove save on a point-blank wrist shot. The rebound bounced dangerously into the slot, and Russo had to throw his whole body across the crease to sweep the puck out before Brooks could jam it home.

​In our suite, Kelvin had his hands clamped over his mouth, while Kalvin was pacing behind the couch, unable to sit still. I sat braced against my pillows, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached, my hand resting flat over my lower stomach.

​Six minutes passed. Then eight.

​The Serpents were struggling to break out of their own zone. The Dark Knights’ defensemen were playing a suffocating, ultra-aggressive trap at the neutral zone, effectively cutting off our passing lanes. Every time Reid tried to gather speed and carry the puck up ice, two grey jerseys collapsed on him, pinning him against the boards and grinding the play to a dead halt.

​"They’re smothering him," I rasped, my throat raw. "They know he’s our main engine. They’re trying to wear him down until he snaps."

And then, ​ten minutes into overtime, disaster struck.

​Reid picked up a loose puck behind our net and attempted a hard outlet pass to Gerald along the left boards. Just as he released it, Brooks came charging in from his blind side, delivering a ruthless, borderline late hit that smashed Reid violently into the seam of the glass doors.

​The ice mics caught the sickening CRACK of the collision.

​Reid went down hard on the ice, his stick clattering away. The play continued up ice toward Miller, but in our hospital room, nobody was looking at the puck.

​"Ref! Where’s the call?!" Kalvin screamed, slamming his fist onto the back of the sofa. "That was a blindside hit! Call the penalty!"

​Reid didn’t get up immediately. He stayed down on one knee, his head hanging low, clutching his left shoulder as a visible shudder ran through his broad frame. My heart slammed into my throat, a wave of cold panic washing over me.

​No. Not now. Please, God, not now.

​"Reid..." I whimpered, my fingers tangling frantically into the blanket over my lap, tears stinging the back of my eyes. "Get up... please get up..."

​Coach Devin was screaming at the referee from the bench, his face bright red. Finally, the play was whistled dead for an offside on the Dark Knights, and the medical trainer stepped onto the ice toward Reid.

​Reid waved the trainer off with a fierce, angry motion of his hand. He gritted his teeth, forced himself onto his feet, and glided slowly back toward the bench.

You could see the subtle, painful hitch in his left shoulder, the way he hesitated to put full pressure on his stick, but when Devin tried to pull him from the shift, Reid snapped something back at him, his dark grey eyes blazing with a refusal so absolute that Devin stepped back.

​He wasn’t coming off the ice. Not when everything was on the line.

​The game resumed, the clock ticking past the fourteen-minute mark.

​Despite his injury, Reid stayed out there, adapting his game on the fly. He stopped relying on pure physical power and began using his hockey IQ to carve through the Knights’ trap. He executed quick, short touch-passes, using Russo and Jake to chip the puck deep into the Knights’ zone, forcing their heavy defensemen to turn and skate backward.

​With three minutes left in overtime, the Dark Knights made their fatal mistake.

​Exhausted from chasing the puck into their own corners, their defensemen miscommunicated on a rimmed pass along the glass. Jake pinched high, blocking the clearing attempt with his glove and knocking the puck down to the high slot.

​Reid was already moving.

​Ignoring the searing pain in his shoulder, he exploded into the slot, gathering the loose puck on his forehand. Brooks tried to dive across to block the angle, his stick sweeping violently toward Reid’s skates, but Reid didn’t flinch.

​In one fluid, blinding sequence, Reid dragged the puck back between his own legs to dodge Brooks’ stick, shifted his weight to his right skate, and whipped a wrist shot straight over the goalie’s blocker.

​The puck hit the top iron with a metallic PING and dropped flat into the back of the net.

​LAMP LIT. GAME OVER.

​For a fraction of a second, the arena fell into a dead, stunned silence—before the loud, glorious blare of the goal horn shattered the air.

​"THE SEATTLE SERPENTS ARE STANLEY CUP CHAMPIONS!" the broadcaster roared into his microphone, his voice cracking with emotion. "REID MCCOY POWERS THROUGH A BRUTAL HIT TO SCORE THE OVERTIME WINNER IN THE FINAL GAME OF HIS CAREER!"

​In our hospital suite, the dam broke completely.

​Kelvin and Kalvin let out deafening, guttural roars, tackling each other straight onto the floor as my sisters screamed and hugged my mother.

My father stood up, threw both hands into the air, and let out a booming, triumphant shout, completely abandoning his stoic front.

And then Marina placed her hand over her lips, her eyes widening in sharp warning. "Shhh! This is still a hospital!"

​The entire room froze. Kelvin and Kalvin instantly cut off their roaring mid-cheer, scrambling off the floor with guilty, wide-eyed expressions. My sisters clamped their hands over their mouths, muffling their laughter, while my father quickly dropped his arms, clearing his throat loudly and straightening his sweater with sudden, intense focus.

​"Sorry, sorry," Kalvin whispered frantically, bowing his head toward the door as if a nurse were about to burst in and evict the whole family. "Got carried away."

​"Right, quiet... keep it down," my father muttered, sitting back down in his armchair with an overly stiff posture, though the proud, unstoppable grin stretching across his face completely gave him away.

​I let out a soft, breathless laugh, my chest rising and falling as tears of pure, overwhelming relief spilled down my cheeks.

​On the television screen, the chaotic, beautiful celebration on the ice was still unfolding. Gloves, helmets, and sticks flew into the air as the Serpents bench emptied, a tidal wave of teal and black swarming Reid into the corner boards.

The Serpents were taking turns hoisting the Stanley Cup above their heads, the silver surface gleaming beneath the arena spotlights.

When the trophy was finally passed down the line, Russo skated it over to Reid. Even with a bruised shoulder and a noticeable stiffness in his movements, Reid lifted the heavy Cup high into the air, his dark grey eyes shining with fierce, quiet triumph.

He lowered the Cup, skated directly toward the main broadcast camera, and tapped his hand twice over the crest on his chest.

I rested my hand flat over my lower stomach, looking up at the screen with an unshakeable warmth settling deep into my soul.

He did it.