Number 52 steps onto the ice for Brookfield. I've never seen him before. Neither has anyone else, judging by the confused looks on our bench. He lines up across from me, and there's something about the way he carries himself that sets off alarms in my head.
The ref drops the puck. I move to control it.
He's faster. Way faster. The puck is gone before I finish my motion, already on a teammate's stick.
They come at us with a speed we haven't seen all night. 52 takes a return pass and flies through the middle of the ice. Brennan angles toward him, tries to force him wide. 52 doesn't slow down. He bounces the puck off the boards, sidesteps Brennan like he's not even there, and collects it on the other side.
Vasquez is our last hope. He squares up, takes away the direct path to the net… but it doesn't matter. 52 picks a corner from a sharp angle, the puck rising over Vasquez's outstretched stick. Matthews gets a piece of it… but not enough.
Bar down. Goal.
2-1.
"Who is that?" Brennan asks, skating by.
I don't know. None of us know. Two more unfamiliar faces join 52 on the next shift. Number 67 and 28. Fresh legs. Fresh problems.
Felix picks up the puck behind our net, tries his signature move along the left boards, the curl and drag that's worked all season. 67 reads it like he's seen it a hundred times and lifts Felix's stick at the exact right moment, stealing the puck. Felix lunges to recover, but he's already off balance.
67 is gone and fires it ahead to 52, who's streaking up the middle with nobody in front of him.
Brennan and Vasquez backpedal, trying to set up. I'm chasing hard but 52's got three steps on me. Liam angles back, but 52 doesn't attack the way players at this level usually do. He slows down. Waits. Lets his teammates catch up until it's three of them against two of us. They're moving while we're scrambling.
They pass. And pass. And pass. Every time we shift to cover one guy, the puck's already somewhere else. Brennan and Vasquez are spinning, trying to stay with them. The puck moves faster than we can react.
Finally 52 walks into the prime scoring area. Matthews drops low, ready. I dive to block.
He doesn't shoot though. Instead, he slides it to 28, who's snuck in behind everyone, the net wide open.
2-2.
The crowd noise changes. Uncertain now. Murmurs instead of cheers.
"Simple plays!" I yell before the game resumes. "Stay in position. Don't chase. We gotta get back and help on defense."
But simple doesn't work when they're this much faster. Brennan tries to clear the puck along the boards, which is a safe, standard play. Except 67 is already there, keeping it in our zone, firing it back. More pressure. More scrambling.
Vasquez loses track of his man for half a second and that's all it takes. The pass finds 28 alone in front of the net. Matthews makes the first save but can't hold on to it. The rebound bounces loose. Three Brookfield sticks hacking at it.
The puck squirts across the goal line.
3-2, Brookfield.
We're unraveling.
I win the next face-off, get it back to Brennan. He looks for someone to pass to, but 52's line is all over us, pressuring like wolves against their prey. Brennan tries to carry it himself, but 52 appears from his blind side, and pokes the puck away so cleanly that Brennan doesn't realize it's gone until he's skating with nothing on his stick.
They turn and attack. 52 launches a pass up the ice to 67 on the right side. Two of them, one of Brennan. Vasquez got caught too far forward on the last play.
Brennan does what he can, he takes away the pass, forces the shot… which Matthews kicks out.
But unfortunately, the puck goes right to 28's stick, who's crashed the net for the rebound.
He doesn't miss.
4-2.
Coach is screaming. I can see his mouth moving but can't process the words. Everything feels underwater. Slow. Disconnected.
