Nate POV

The rink hums with energy. I can feel it the second I step onto the ice, like the crowd, the pressure, and the weight of the season have all converged on this one moment. This one last game.

The final game of the season.

It’s do or die for us. For the team, for the fans, for everything we’ve worked for. We have to win this. But somewhere deep inside, I know there’s more riding on this than just the season’s outcome. There’s a reason I’m here, pushing myself harder than I ever have before.

I don’t care about the game right now. I care about her.

And as I skate through warm-ups, I scan the stands, squinting past the glare of the spotlights slicing through the rafters. Rows of bundled-up fans, faces painted, jerseys everywhere. Then I see her.

Riley.

Her hair is pulled back, her stance quiet and unsure as she watches from the stands. But she’s here. I can see the weight of her decision in the way she stands, still, unsure of what she’s feeling, unsure of what she’s doing here. But she’s here. And that’s all that matters.

She’s here.

I breathe in deep, my heart pounding as the warm-up drills continue. The sound of the skates cutting against the ice, the sharp rhythm of sticks hitting pucks, it’s all background noise now. I’m locked in. I’m thinking about one thing. One person.

I’ll play this game like it’s the last one of my life. Because it might be, if I don’t get this right.

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The first period flies by in a blur. We’re all on edge, everyone knows how much this game means. The other team is aggressive, fast, and they’re not pulling punches. The physicality’s there, but so is the drive. I’m skating hard, pushing, feeling the game move through me. My stick handling’s sharper than it’s been in weeks, my shots more precise. I can hear my teammates’ shouts, but I only focus on the puck, on the next shift, the next chance.

Midway through the second period, things get heated.

I’m deep in their zone, taking a shot, when one of their defensemen, a guy I’ve had issues with all season, slams me into the boards. The hit’s clean, but it’s hard. My shoulder takes the brunt of it, and my skate catches on the boards, sending me off-balance. I stumble but recover quickly, spinning around to face him.

“Watch where you’re hitting, asshole!” I shout at him, not caring that the ref’s right there.

He grins, a wide, cocky smile. “I’m just doing my job, 17.”

I lunge forward, ready to take a swing, but my teammate cuts in, keeping the peace. The crowd’s on edge now, the tension crackling like static. I’m fired up, more than I’ve been all season. This is it. This game. Riley’s here, watching me.

And I won’t fuck this up.

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The third period comes, and the score’s tied. My legs are burning, my body’s sore from the hits, but I can’t slow down. I can’t. Not when it’s this close. The crowd’s deafening, the arena's a wall of noise.

And then I see her again, just for a moment, Riley’s face in the stands. She’s watching me. There’s no turning back now.

We’re in their zone again, cycling the puck, trying to get a clean shot off. I see an opening, move in, and fire a shot that goes wide. But I don’t stop. I crash the net, hoping for the rebound, and I’m right there when it comes off the goalie’s pad. I don’t hesitate. I slam it home.

The crowd erupts. The noise is overwhelming, but I don’t hear it. I don’t hear anything except the sound of my heartbeat.

I glance up immediately, searching for her. She’s standing, her eyes wide, mouth slightly open in shock.

And that’s when I know, I’ve got her.

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The game ends, the buzzer blaring, and the final score flashes on the screen. We’ve won. We’re going to the playoffs.

But there’s something else I’m focused on now.

The press rushes the ice. Cameras flash, microphones shoved in my face. The team’s celebrating, but I can’t stop looking for her. My heart’s pounding like it’s trying to escape my chest.

I push through the chaos, ignoring the reporters and the noise.

There she is.

Riley’s standing by the glass, watching me with those big, conflicted eyes. Her expression is unreadable, but I know she’s waiting for something. I don’t know what, but I can feel it.

This is it.

I push past a couple of reporters and make my way toward her, ignoring the questions being thrown at me. I don’t care. I don’t care about any of it.

When I reach the glass, I don’t hesitate. I pull myself up and slam my hands against the boards, leaning in.

“Riley,” I shout over the noise. “I love you.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. It’s like they’ve been locked away in me for so long, and now they’re spilling out, raw, real. In front of everyone.

The crowd goes silent for a second, like they’re waiting for the punchline. But all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears, the sound of my own heartbeat, and her.

Her eyes meet mine, and I see the flicker of something in them. Hope? I don’t know. But it’s there.

I take a deep breath, pushing through the last of the adrenaline.

“I love you, Riley,” I say again, quieter this time, my voice firm.

She doesn’t respond. She just stands there, staring at me, but her eyes soften, and something shifts. She looks… uncertain. But maybe that’s a good sign.

The press shoves their way in, but I don’t care. I can’t focus on them right now.

All I can do is wait for her to answer.

And hope that she feels the same.