I adjust the sleeves of my Vancouver Warriors jersey and play with the neck of the sweatshirt beneath, doing anything to keep my hands busy.
I’m nervous—terrified, actually. It’s game seven of the Stanley Cup finals, and both teams are tied with one goal each.
While I would love to see Leo raise that giant silver cup over his head and plant a kiss on its belly, the little girl inside of me who idolized the VW her entire life needs them to win this. I need them to win while I’m here, watching and chanting and yelling curses at the referees.
It wasn’t five minutes after we arrived at Rogers Arena that it hit me. It hit me that this is the first time I’ve been to a game of this calibre that wasn’t my own. Where I wasn’t the one feeling the suffocating pressure, the exhaustion and adrenaline that pumps through you in one chaotic cocktail with each second that ticks down on the clock.
Every hockey player dreams of this moment—fantasizes about it, hoping one day it will be their blades cutting into this ice. Their stick connecting with that final game-winning puck.
When I was very young, I had dreams of being here, but things aren’t the same for women in the hockey world, and that’s just how it is. Instead, I got to play on an even bigger stage, with just as much on the line.
The Olympics were everything I had hoped for. The little girl inside of me sobbed when we made it to that arena in PyeongChang. It was like suddenly everything was worth it. Every bill that was paid late because Mom made sure hockey came first, every pulled muscle and ache in my body that lingered for weeks, and all of the years I spent with skates on my feet and gloves on my hands.
It. Was. All. Worth. It.
The Olympics were my Stanley Cup playoffs. The gold medal that was slipped over my head and hung heavy on my neck was my Stanley Cup. And those memories will live inside of me for the rest of my life.
Hopefully, the girl sitting next to me in a matching jersey and green-painted cheeks will be there next. And maybe I’ll be the one to help her get there.
“This is insane. I can’t thank you enough for this,” Willow says to Adam. She’s staring in awe at the rush of players from our lower-level seats, three rows from the ice itself.
Tyler Bateman throws his body against the boards when he notices us on his way to the bench, and Willow’s gasp is so audible I laugh into my hand. Cooper doesn’t try to hide his laugh from his place beside Adam.
“It pays off to have friends in high places.” Adam grins at her.
He’s been holding my thigh in that large hand of his since the start of the third period, and I have a suspicion it’s because he’s just as nervous as I am. With his foot tapping at an unsteady beat and his hair a mess from his fingers constantly sliding through it, he looks a mess.
A ridiculously handsome mess.
“You good?” I ask in a hushed voice.
He turns his head and looks at me, a bit panicked. I blink back my surprise and place my hand over his.
“Oakley never won a Stanley Cup with this team. The VW haven’t won one since long before he joined them. This is it, baby. This has to be the year. Tyler’s going to get that moment.”
“This is it,” I echo. “And we get to witness it.”
The time on the clock ticks to the final one minute before an icing is called against the Woodmen, sending them back to the left of their own net.
Adrenaline sparks beneath my skin. My pulse races.
“This could actually happen,” Willow breathes, reaching for my hand, holding it for dear life. I give hers a tight squeeze and settle them on the armrest between us.
We must all look like a bunch of unstable superfans, and that’s because we are. All three of us bleed hockey, but we each love it in a different way.
For Adam, it’s a friendly kind of love. It’s a familiar face in a crowded room. A comfort.
For Willow, it’s a passionate love, a blazing fire burning inside her chest. That fire is what fuels her, and without that fire, she’s cold, numb.
And for me, hockey is like my version of a high school sweetheart. It’s my first love, the one who broke my heart. But it’s also what helped teach me everything I needed to know about myself. It’s the type of love that grew into something I’ll always remember.
It’s memories. It’s the highest highs and the lowest lows.
I won’t ever stop loving hockey. I’ll use my experiences to mentor others and to just enjoy the sport that I fell in love with back when I was too young to realize what I was really getting myself into.
Some people aren’t lucky enough to find a passion like mine in their entire lives, and I don’t plan on ever letting that go to waste.
The last minute of the game is a blur. The crowd is deafening; the hands clutching mine are both slick with nervous sweat.
Leo clears the puck from their zone, but in a blink, Tyler’s there, trapping it and quickly passing it off. A Warriors player—a rookie with the name Marshall stitched on his jersey—is the one to receive the hard pass from Tyler.
He freezes for the smallest of moments when the puck hits his blade, just long enough for anyone looking close enough to notice, before taking off toward the goalie.
I hold my breath when he crosses the blue line and avoids the Woodmen defenseman who had his stick positioned to steal the puck. My grip on Adam’s hand is punishing, but I don’t let go. I don’t think I can.
The rookie player whips his head back and forth, suddenly seeing the players in front of him. They want to shut him down, regardless of what they have to do to accomplish it, and I’m sure he’s thinking that exact thing right now.
My entire body locks up when he spots Tyler and, without a second thought, sends the puck between the Woodmen players and directly to Tyler’s stick.
Tyler doesn’t hesitate. He looks directly at the group of players surrounding him and pulls a maneuver worthy of the trophies and awards he’s won and shoots the puck.
I jump to my feet, and a shout rips through me the second that red buzzer flares to life above the goalie net and Tyler sails across the ice with his hands and stick straight in the air.
I focus on the net through wet eyes, and there it is. The puck is nestled in the left corner.
“Oh my God!” Willow screams, launching herself in my arms as Adam hugs Cooper. “They did it!”
If I thought the crowd was deafening before, it was nothing compared to now. Hats, jerseys, and the flags that were laid over our seats when we got here—they’re raining down over the stands. Plastic clappers are going crazy, and the band perched in one of the boxes is banging on drums and playing the most random music in celebration.
Willow releases me at the same time Adam scoops me in his arms and pulls me against him. He bends down and captures my mouth in a soul-shattering kiss that tastes like popcorn and the tears streaming down my face.
His hands are on my hips, my waist, my face, anywhere he can touch. We’re high on adrenaline, on pure elation, and it takes everything in me to pull away before our clothes wind up everywhere but our bodies.
“Holy shit,” I gasp, shaking my head in disbelief. “Is this for real?”
The Warriors are in an emotionally gripping hug on centre ice, their gloves and helmets lying around them. I lift my head to the jumbotron and see coverage of the box I know Gracie and the rest of the group was watching from.
Oakley has his sister tucked in his arms, holding her tight as she cries tears of happiness and pride. They break apart just enough for Oakley to turn Gray toward the ice as Tyler lifts his arm, pointing right at her.
She gives him a watery smile and puts her hand over her heart before shaking her head and pointing back.
The moment has me looking back at Adam, my heart in my throat. I lift my hands and grab his face, pulling him down to kiss me one more time.
But before our lips connect, I whisper, “There isn’t anyone I would have rather experienced this with.”
He wraps a hand in my curls and tilts my head back. “Here’s to a lifetime of memories like this, Scary Spice.”
