My Hockey Heartthrob: A Promise in Overtime

Chapter Forty-Two

The championship final is three days away, and Team USA's practices take on a different intensity as the tournament narrows toward its final stakes — longer sessions, more detailed video review, the specific focused energy of a team that knows exactly how much is riding on the next ninety minutes of hockey they'll ever play together as this particular roster.

Adrian arrives at the first post-crisis practice early, the way he always does, and finds Cross already on the ice, running informal drills alone before the rest of the team arrives.

"You good?" Cross asks, skating over, dropping the usual easy teasing in favor of something more genuinely concerned. "Been a rough couple days, from what I've seen online."

"I'm good," Adrian says, and finds, testing the words, that they're mostly true for the first time in longer than he can remember. "Better than good, actually. Complicated, but good."

"That tracks. Complicated but good describes basically every important thing in life, in my experience." Cross grins, easy again. "Glad you're back to yourself, though, whatever 'back to yourself' actually means right now. You were a little scary to be around during that mid-tournament slump."

"I appreciate you not asking too many questions during all that."

"Man, I learned my lesson after the tunnel thing. You made it very clear where the boundaries were." Cross laughs, no real sting in it. "For what it's worth, whatever's going on with the journalist — Bennett — the guys are happy for you. We could all tell something real was there, even before any of this became public. Good for you, honestly. You deserve something real."

Adrian feels something warm settle in his chest at the sentiment, genuine and uncomplicated in a way that feels good after several days of complicated public scrutiny. "Thanks, Cross."

"Don't get sentimental on me before a practice. Save it for the wedding speech, assuming things go that direction." Cross skates off before Adrian can respond, laughing, and Adrian finds himself smiling, alone at center ice, feeling more like himself than he has in longer than five years.

The team meeting that follows is focused entirely on hockey — systems review, line combinations, detailed scouting on Team Canada's tendencies heading into a final that both teams have clearly been building toward all tournament. Adrian leads it with a clarity and focus that's been visibly absent for stretches of the last two weeks, the coaching staff exchanging quiet, approving glances as he walks through defensive assignments with total command of the material.

"Voss's line likes to cycle low in the offensive zone," he says, pointing to the whiteboard diagram. "We saw it in the group stage matchup. If we can force them wide instead of letting them establish low, we cut off their best chances before they develop."

"You've been studying him a lot," the head coach observes, something knowing in his tone.

"Five years of history will do that," Adrian says, and the room laughs, warm rather than awkward, the specific camaraderie of a team that's watched their captain navigate something difficult and come out the other side more present rather than less.

Practice itself is sharp, focused, Adrian's timing fully restored, his read on the ice sharper than it's been all tournament. He finds himself, mid-drill, catching Mara's eye from where she's observing along the boards during her scheduled access window, and instead of the careful, guarded flicker of recognition that's characterized every previous interaction this tournament, he finds himself simply smiling — open, easy, entirely unguarded — and watching her smile back, equally unguarded, equally warm.

Something has genuinely shifted, he understands, skating a slow lap between drills. Not just between them, but in himself — the specific, hard-won relief of no longer having to perform composure, because for the first time in five years, the composure isn't actually covering anything up anymore.

Mara, watching from the boards, feels something similar settling into place — the specific, grounded satisfaction of watching someone she loves genuinely, fully present, rather than carefully managing a version of himself for public consumption.

She's working, technically — gathering material for tomorrow's preview piece on the championship matchup, professional notebook in hand — but she finds herself, more than once, simply watching him move through the drill work with total, focused clarity, appreciating, in a way she hasn't let herself fully appreciate all tournament, exactly how good he actually is at the thing he's spent his whole life building himself around.

Cross skates past on his way to the bench, catching her eye with an easy grin. "He's playing like himself again," he says, pausing briefly at the boards. "Whatever you did, keep doing it."

"I didn't do anything," Mara says, though she feels warmth rise in her cheeks at the observation.

"Sure you didn't." Cross winks and skates off before she can protest further, and Mara finds herself laughing, alone at the boards, feeling something she hasn't felt in longer than she can remember — genuine, uncomplicated happiness, unguarded by five years of careful professional distance.

Her phone buzzes. Callum, checking in on the preview piece's progress.

How's the Team USA prep looking? Need the piece by tomorrow morning.

Looking strong, she types back, honest. Cole's fully locked in. This team has a real shot.

Good. And you? How are you holding up, after everything this week?

Mara considers the question, genuinely touched by the personal check-in from an editor she's mostly known through professional exchanges. Better than I expected, she types back. Genuinely better.

Good, Callum writes back. You've earned that. See you at the final — flying out myself for this one, given how the story's developed. Figured I should be there in person.

Mara smiles at her phone, feeling, for the first time in longer than she can remember, like every complicated thread of the last several weeks — professional and personal, painful and hopeful — is finally, genuinely converging toward something worth showing up for.

She watches Adrian finish practice, gathering with his teammates near the bench for the coach's closing remarks, and feels, standing at the boards with her notebook still mostly empty of actual notes, entirely, uncomplicatedly happy to simply be present for it.

Three days until the championship final. Three days until everything — the hockey, the healing, the whole complicated, hard-won shape of whatever they're building together — converges into whatever comes next.

For the first time in five years, Mara finds herself genuinely, fully looking forward to it.