stick around • matthew schaefer

chapter fifty-eight

panthers dumped the puck in, went for a change.

adrianna snagged it behind our net, skated the length of the ice—coast to coast—dropped it back to me.

i didn't even have to look.

just shot.

net.

goal.

win.

and instead of celebrating with the boys, i skated straight to her.

arms around her waist.
helmet to helmet.

"you're insane," i whispered.

she grinned.

"you love it."

i didn't say it out loud.

but i did.

i do.

1-1
⸻

back in new york for game three.

the city buzzed differently now.

streets full of reporters.
posters with her face on them.
interviews lined up between practices.

i was proud.

i was.

but it was also starting to feel like she was playing one game, and i was playing another.

i waited for her after the shoot.

she came out in a fitted suit, hair done, makeup camera-ready.

"you looked amazing," i told her.

she smiled. "thanks. i didn't trip over any of my words, so that's a win."

i tried to say something else.

but the moment passed.

and the silence felt louder than it should've.

⸻

game three was a battle.

we were locked 2–2 with five minutes left.

coach called a timeout.
drew up a play.

i looked across the bench.

she was staring at me already.

we didn't say anything.

just nodded.

when we hit the ice, it was like everything clicked back into place.

they rushed.
she cut them off.
i circled high, took the puck from her and swung wide.

she darted in behind me.

i backhanded it through the slot.

and she buried it.

goal.

win.

home crowd lost it.

and for a second, everything felt right again.

2-1
⸻

game four was a disaster.

we weren't prepared.

they shut us down early, scored two in the first five minutes.

tensions started boiling.

on the bench, i could feel it brewing between us.

not anger. not hate. just... static.

"you good?" i asked during a line change.

she didn't answer right away.

just breathed out. "i think i'm just tired of being 'the story.'"

i wanted to tell her it was okay.
that she was the story—for the right reasons.
that she deserved every spotlight she was standing under.

but i didn't know how to say it without sounding like a lie.

we lost 3–0.

series tied 2–2.

and when we got back to the locker room, neither of us spoke.

not because we were mad.

but because we didn't know how to say the one thing that mattered:

this pressure isn't your fault.
and i'm still with you.

⸻

later that night, i knocked on her hotel door.

she opened it wearing sweats, eyes rimmed red, hair damp from the shower.

i stepped in without saying anything.

we sat on the edge of the bed.

and finally—quietly—i said:

"i'm scared you're leaving me behind."

she blinked.

not angry. not surprised.

just sad.

"i'm scared i'll lose myself in this," she whispered. "in the interviews. the opinions. the noise. i feel like i'm balancing everything on a wire."

i reached for her hand.

"then let's walk it together."

her eyes met mine.

and for the first time since the round started—
we didn't feel divided.

we felt like us again.

whole.

ready.
_______
a/n: 💁‍♀️