stick around • matthew schaefer

chapter twenty-two

adrianna's pov.

i thought i was ready for playoffs.

i've trained my whole life for games like this—big lights, louder crowds, blood in your throat and adrenaline in your veins.

but nothing could've prepared me for walking into game one without him.

not just matthew the defenceman.
not even matthew the rival.
but the matthew who remembered me yesterday.

the matthew who looked at me like he knew me again.

and now he's not here.
not next to me on the blue line.
not tapping his stick against mine in the tunnel.
not skating backward during warmups with that smug little half-grin that always made me want to slash his shin pads.

he's not here. and i feel it in my ribs.

like something's missing.
like i'm missing.

⸻

the crowd is insane. the barn is packed—sold out, standing room only, playoff towels spinning above every seat in erie insurance arena.

i block it out.

i always have.

helmet on. heart caged.

but tonight, something's different.

it's like the air itself is watching me.

like the whole city is waiting to see if i'll crack without him.

and maybe i will.

but not tonight.

⸻

we line up for puck drop. i look across the ice at the other team—their top line already chirping. i hear one of them call me "rosie."

matthew used to say it like a challenge.
this guy says it like a joke.

mistake.

the puck drops, and everything inside me locks into place.

⸻

i play the game of my life.

not just smart. not just solid.

i play hungry.

i skate every shift like it's personal.

because it is.

i take the body. block three shots in the second. start the breakout that leads to the game-winner in the third.

every time i touch the puck, the building explodes.

but i barely hear it.

all i hear is his voice in the back of my head.

"move your feet, rossi."

so i do.

i don't stop.

not until the final buzzer.

not until i've left every piece of myself on the ice.

⸻

we win 3–2.

first playoff game in the bag.

reporters crowd around me after the handshake line. cameras. mics. everyone wants the headline:

"first female otter leads blue line to playoff victory without schaefer."

but i don't say anything about that.

i just say we played hard.

and we played for each other.

because that's what he would've said.

⸻

i don't go to the locker room right away.

instead, i sneak out through the service hallway. full body wet from the shower.

i walk to the hospital.

it's not far. not when your adrenaline's still burning.

i get to his room just past eleven.

he's awake. sitting up. watching highlights on his phone.

his face lights up when he sees me.

"you killed it."

my heart stops.

"you watched?"

"twice," he says, holding up the phone. "you crushed that second period."

i walk in. close the door behind me. take the chair by his bedside.

"you remembered again today," i whisper. "you said you remembered me."

he nods.

"i still do."

and that's when the tears come.

quiet.

unshakable.

because i've spent weeks trying to carry both of us—and now, finally, he's meeting me halfway.

"i played for you tonight," i tell him. "but it didn't feel like enough."

he reaches for my hand.

just rests his fingers against mine.

"it was," he says. "it always was."

⸻

we sit like that for a while.
quiet.
close.
not quite healed, but no longer broken.

and for the first time since the accident, i start to believe it.

that maybe we were never really over.

maybe we were just waiting to start again.
_______
a/n: ugh i love this chapter