The chill of the arena hit me as soon as I stepped inside, the cold wrapping around me like an extra layer of nerves. The stands were alive with energy—kids waving posters, parents bundled in team colors, and clusters of fans stomping their boots against the old wooden bleachers.

I found a seat near center ice, gripping a warm cup of hot chocolate and pulling my coat tighter. My eyes scanned the rink until they landed on him.

Graham was already in the crease, crouched low, his stick tapping the goalpost lightly. Even from up here, I could feel his focus, the way his eyes followed every movement across the ice.

The whistle blew, and the puck dropped at center ice. The game was on.

Graham's team came out flying, their skaters darting through neutral ice with practiced precision. Twillingate’s defense scrambled to hold them off, but they were outmatched, and it showed.

Graham didn’t flinch.

A slapshot from the point came screaming toward the net, a blur of black against white. Graham dropped to the butterfly in a heartbeat, his pads snapping together to seal off the bottom of the net. The puck rebounded off his right pad, bouncing into the corner.

The crowd let out a collective breath, but Graham was already resetting, his stick tapping the ice as he tracked the next play.

“Keep it up, Fletcher!” someone shouted from the stands, and I couldn’t help but echo the sentiment in my head.

By the second period, Graham’s team was up by one, but Twillingate wasn’t giving up. Their forwards pressed hard, weaving through the neutral zone with a crisp passing play that left defenders scrambling.

Graham stood tall, his glove snapping out to catch a wrister from the slot that looked like a sure goal. He held the puck aloft for a moment before tossing it to the referee, his calm confidence radiating through the arena.

Twillingate’s best chance came off a rebound late in the period. The puck ricocheted off a skate in front of the net, slipping through a mess of bodies toward the goal line. My breath caught in my throat as Graham dove to his left, stretching out with his glove hand.

He caught it.

The whistle blew, and the crowd erupted in cheers and groans, depending on which side they were rooting for. I was on my feet, clapping before I even realized it, the tension in my chest easing slightly.

The third period was a battle.

Twillingate’s forwards threw everything they had at Graham, their desperation fueling a relentless attack. The puck ricocheted off sticks, skates, and even the crossbar once, drawing gasps from the crowd. But Graham didn’t falter.

A one-timer from the hash marks whistled toward the top corner, but Graham exploded out of his crouch, his glove flashing up to snag the puck mid-air.

“Unreal,” someone muttered behind me, and I found myself nodding, my heart pounding as if I were the one on the ice.

The clock ticked down, each second feeling like a lifetime. Graham’s team clung to their slim lead, but Twillingate refused to back down.

With less than a minute left, Twillingate pulled their goalie, sending an extra attacker onto the ice. It was chaos—sticks clashing, bodies crashing into the boards, and the puck flying wildly around the zone.

For a moment, I lost sight of it in the scramble.

Then, out of nowhere, one of Graham’s defensemen intercepted a pass and sent the puck sailing down the ice. It slid straight into the empty net.

The buzzer sounded, and the arena erupted in noise.

Graham’s teammates poured onto the ice, celebrating as the crowd roared around them. He pulled off his mask, his face flushed from exertion, his grin stretching so wide it made my chest ache.

From the stands, I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, but there was something else there too. Pride. Relief.

As his team swarmed him, clapping his back and shaking his shoulders, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

For all the questions he had shared this morning, for all the uncertainty about his future, this moment was his. He had been incredible, the kind of player who carried his team when they needed him most.

The trophy presentation was a blur of cheers and flashing cameras. Graham skated forward to lift it alongside his captain, the lights catching the curve of his smile as the rest of the team whooped and hollered behind them.

I sat back in my seat, the noise of the arena fading slightly as I watched him.

This was his last game in Twillingate, his last night here.

And as the team celebrated on the ice, the weight of that truth settled heavily in my chest.

I wasn’t ready for him to leave.