And the puck drops.
* * *
I win the face-off clean, snapping the puck back to Brennan waiting near our offensive zone. He scans the ice, finds Felix open along the left side. The pass is crisp. Felix shields the puck from his defender, buying me time to cut toward the net.
That's what I'm talking about.
Liam crashes in from the right, plants himself in front of their goalie. His body is the perfect screen. Felix sees me, sends it across. I don't need to aim, just redirect it, changing the angle with my stick.
Their goalie drops, stretches out his pad, but he's a fraction late. The puck slides under his arm.
Red light. Goal horn. The arena erupts.
1-0, thirty-seven seconds in.
"That's it!" Felix slams into me, grinning through his mouth guard. "That's fucking it!"
We reset. Brookfield looks rattled. Their coach is barking adjustments, but his players' eyes have that look… the one that says they weren't ready for us.
I win the next face-off too. We keep the puck in their end, passing it around, making them chase. Vasquez fakes a big wind-up shot from the perimeter. Their guys bite, swarming toward him. He doesn't shoot though, he just slides it to Brennan, who fires it low. Their goalie kicks it away, but Felix is already there, waiting for exactly that.
He doesn't hesitate. He snaps his wrists, the puck rises, and finds the tiny gap between the crossbar and the post. Their goalie doesn't even have time to react.
2-0.
The bench erupts. Coach nods, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes. This is the system working. This is what we practiced.
Brookfield tries to respond. They cycle the puck in our zone, keeping possession, wearing us down. But Brennan reads where they're going before they get there. He steps into the passing lane, intercepts, and fires it up the ice. Liam's already sprinting up the right side. Felix mirrors him on the left. I trail behind them through the center. It's now the three of us against two of their defenders.
We play it perfectly. Liam draws his man wide, opens up space in the middle. I drive hard toward the net, pulling the other defender with me… while Felix slips behind everyone. Liam threads the pass through them, right onto Felix's stick.
The net is empty and, and he buries the puck in.
Wait. Whistle. The ref's arm is up. Offside.
"Are you fucking kidding?" Felix protests, but the replay shows it. He crossed into their zone a split second too early. His skate was an inch over the line before the puck.
Doesn't matter. We're dominating. Every pass connects. Every read is correct. Vasquez strips one of their guys along the boards, and spots me breaking away. He launches it the length of the ice and the puck lands soft on my stick. It's just me and their goalie now.
He comes out to challenge, cutting down my angle. I fake right, pull it left. He goes down. I lift the puck over his pad—
But the puck hits the crossbar, the ping echoing through the arena.
"Next one," Liam says, skating by. Calm. Certain.
The period continues like this. Wave after wave. We're all over them—shots bouncing off posts, their goalie making desperate saves. We're outshooting them fifteen to four. Their goalie the only reason it's still 2-0.
Matthews barely has to work at our end. When Brookfield does get the puck into our zone, we collapse around them, sticks blocking every lane, bodies in front of every shot. They can't get anything clean.
The buzzer sounds. First intermission. We file off to cheers and cowbells, the crowd electric.
"That's hockey, boys," Coach says in the locker room. "Keep that pressure. They're gonna adjust, but you stick to the system."
We nod, drink water, catch our breath. Everything feels right.
* * *
The second period starts wrong from the first shift.
