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Soren’s fury is immediate, a storm unleashed. He smashes his stick against the goal, the crack of it echoing like a gunshot. I flinch, knowing that rage, fearing its edge—not for myself since he’d never hurt me, but I worry for him. “Don’t,” I murmur, though he can’t hear me, can’t see the worry etching lines into my face.
The ref skates over, issuing a warning that has Soren’s jaw clenching, muscles taut beneath inked skin. I imagine his pulse pounding at the base of his throat.
“Keep your head, Soren,” Lucia mutters beside me, her voice low and tense. She’s right; we need him level, focused, not lost in the tempest of his own making.
The minutes stretch, endless, an eon crammed into seconds. Each shift of players is a gasp for air, each cleared puck a brief respite. The Sabertooths’ defense is a wall of muscle and sheer determination, Mickey at the helm, his presence on the ice is a promise of protection, a counterbalance to Soren’s wrath.
Luckily, the Sabertooths rally, a surge of adrenaline and skill that has everyone on their feet, shouting encouragement. The air vibrates with tension, thick as the ice beneath their skates. Sawyer’s on fire tonight, his body a blur of motion that culminates in the slap of puck against net—not once, not twice, but thrice. A hat trick. The crowd goes ballistic, a wave of sound that crashes over us, drenching us in a frenzy of excitement.
“Fuck yes!” I scream, my voice lost in the cacophony. Lucia is beside me, her face flushed with pride for her husband, her green eyes alight as we jump and hug.
“Did you see that?” she yells into my ear. “Sy’s a goddamn beast!”
I nod, grinning like a lunatic, my heart pounding in sync with the chants echoing around us. “Hat-trick hero!” I cheer, throwing my arms up.
But then the siren blares, slicing through the celebration. Regulation time bleeds out, the score still tied, and overtime looms—a sudden-death promise hanging over us all.
“Shit, this is intense,” Amy mutters. I agree and clasp my hands together, my nails biting into my palms.
The players are back, skating with a ferocity that defies human limits. Each pass is a prayer, each shot a plea, and I find myself holding my breath, releasing it in ragged gasps as chances come and go.
“Fuck!” Luce curses as a shot ricochets off the post, the metallic clang a taunt, a tease. Everyone up here is on edge, every nerve ending firing. It’s maddening, this waiting, this wanting, this need to see our men triumph.
“Score! Just score!” I urge them silently, my plea a mantra that I repeat over and over, a chant for the hockey gods, a supplication for fate to tip in our favor.
The puck glides across the slick, silvery expanse of ice, a beacon of hope in a sea of tension. My heart is a jackhammer against my chest, echoing the beat of ten thousand others in the arena. Time stretches, a taut string ready to snap with the next flick of a wrist.
My fists are clenched in my lap, as Soren blocks yet another shot, his body a fortress, unyielding and fierce. He’s goddamn majestic, a warrior in pads and helmet, guarding his realm with a ferocity that sets my blood afire.
Then it happens.
The moment fractures, shatters into a million glittering pieces as Mickey intercepts the puck, muscles coiled like a panther—like a goddamnsabertooth—as he passes to Sawyer, who feints once, twice, before sending it back to Mickey who winds up, his body a conduit of raw power and grace, and slams it home.
“YES!” The word explodes from my lips, a primal scream of victory. I’m on my feet without realizing it, jumping and cheering, caught in a whirlwind of ecstasy as the light blazes confirmation. We’ve done it. They’ve done it. The Sabertooths have won the Stanley Cup final.
“WE WON! WE FUCKING WON!” Luce’s voice is a wild cheer beside me, her joy infectious, all-encompassing.
The arena is a living entity, shaking with the roar of triumph. Strangers hug, high-five, their faces painted smiles of disbelief and elation. Every soul here is united in a single thought, a single feeling; Victory.
On the ice, the players toss their sticks, gloves, and helmets aside, embracing each other in a frenzy of celebration. Mickey and Soren find each other amidst the chaos, their arms wrapped tightly around one another, two halves of a whole. Their eyes meet mine, and the world falls away; it’s just us, our connection electric, transcendent.
Tonight, that’s when I’ll say it. Because to the victors goes the motherfucking spoils.
“My boys!” I shout, my voice hoarse with pride, my hands cradling my belly. Fet kicks, as if she too understands the magnitude of this moment, the legacy being written on the ice.
“Look at them, Gail. Just look.” Luce’s words are a breathless whisper filled with emotions. “They’re champions.”
Soren throws his head back, a victor’s howl piercing the din, while Mickey skates around, fists pumping the air. They’re glorious, my men, my protectors, my lovers—conquerors in a world of ice and steel.
My own voice joins the chorus of chants, willing them to feel the depth of my love, my admiration. I am theirs, utterly and completely, just as they are mine.
“Champions,” I murmur. And as the confetti rains down, sparkling like winter stars, I think of the future, bright and unwritten. Here, in this temple of ice, we’ve found triumph.
The air is electric, buzzing with a current that could light up the whole damn city. I’m standing, breathless and wild-eyed, as the players line up along the ice, their faces gleaming with sweat and victory. The Sabertooths have done it—they’ve snatched glory from the jaws of defeat.
“Give it up for your champions!” the announcer booms, and the crowd erupts into a deafening roar. We chant, stomp, clap—united in this pocket of time where nothing exists but the here and now.
“Sabertooths!” I scream, my voice blending with the surrounding chorus. My throat burns, but who gives a fuck? This is what it means to be alive—to feel every high, every low, every breathless moment of suspense and release.
