Under the blinding arena lights, Ryan “Diesel” Dempsey laced up his skates, his fingers moving with the automatic precision of decades of practice. The roar of 18,000 fans echoed through the arena, but Ryan barely noticed. His focus was elsewhere tonight.
After 18 years in the league, this game—Game 7 of the championship series—was likely his last. His 39-year-old body had taken more hits than he cared to count, and his knees screamed at him every time he stood. But this wasn’t just about the pain. He had a family now—his wife Emily and their two-year-old daughter, Harper. They deserved more than a tired, aching husband and father who could barely keep up.
The first period was a blur of speed and brutality. Ryan didn’t even realize his team was down 1–0 until he sat on the bench, gulping water. His teammates were younger, faster, and brimming with energy, but they leaned on him for guidance, a steady hand in the chaos.
The second period began, and Ryan found himself in a scuffle along the boards. His body reacted instinctively, shielding the puck before snapping a pass to the slot. His linemate, Peters, buried it in the net, tying the game. Ryan grinned despite himself. Maybe there was still some Diesel left in the tank.
The final period was a grind. With less than two minutes left and the score still tied, the coach called Ryan over. “You’re up next,” he said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Ryan hopped over the boards, adrenaline drowning out the pain in his legs. The puck careened toward him, and he intercepted it with a practiced flick of his stick. He surged up the ice, weaving between defenders like he was 25 again.
Near the blue line, he faked a shot, drawing the goalie out of position, before sliding the puck to Peters once more. Peters didn’t hesitate, slapping it into the net. The red light flashed, and the crowd erupted.
The final seconds ticked away, and when the buzzer sounded, Ryan was buried in a pile of teammates. They hoisted the championship trophy high, the weight of it surprisingly familiar in Ryan’s hands.
Later, as the arena emptied and the media frenzy faded, Ryan sat alone in the locker room. He held his skates in his hands, the leather worn and frayed, and he knew it was time to hang them up.
Emily and Harper appeared in the doorway, Harper giggling as she toddled toward him. Ryan scooped her up, holding her close. “That’s it, kiddo,” he whispered, kissing her forehead. “Daddy’s coming home.”
The game had given Ryan everything—fame, fortune, and memories he’d treasure forever. But now, it was time to start the next chapter.
Michael J McCluskey 