Fifteen minutes. We're down by three goals against elite players. But she's watching. Our omega is watching, and something deep in me refuses to lose in front of her.
"New plan," Silas says, pulling us into a huddle while the refs sort out some confusion at the scorer's table. "Felix, stop trying to deke through three guys. Quick passes only."
"Got it." Felix nods, and there's color back in his cheeks.
"Liam, I need you calling plays again. I can't see everything from center."
I force myself back into the present, out of the fog I've been drowning in since the last period. "Their 52 keeps focusing his defense on the puck side. We can exploit that."
"Good. Use it." Silas looks at both of us. "She's here. That has to mean something."
"Means we can't suck in front of her," Felix says with a ghost of his usual grin.
"Means we don't quit," I correct.
The ref blows his whistle. Face-off in their zone. Silas lines up against 52, who's been dominating him all period. But this time, Silas doesn't try to win it clean. He ties up 52's stick and kicks the puck back to me.
I have it on my stick and everything slows down. I'm entering the zone, where I can see the play developing before it happens. Silas driving toward the net. Felix finding an opening as the defenseman overcommits.
I fake the shot, drawing 52 toward me, then float a pass over his stick to Felix, who catches it and shoots in one motion.
5-3.
The arena explodes back to life.
"That's one," Silas says as we reset. "Need two more."
"Math genius over here," Felix chirps, but he's actually smiling now, his energy flickering back to life.
Brookfield responds hard. They're too good not to. Number 67 strips Vasquez at center ice, breaks in alone on Matthews. The shot is hard, but Matthews kicks out his pad and sends it wide. Ice flies as he slides across the crease.
"Thank you, Matty!" Felix yells, slapping our goalie's pads as he skates by.
We break out, actually stringing passes together for the first time since the second period. My brain is working again, reading patterns, finding lanes. I see Felix about to get crushed along the boards and yell "Drop!" He leaves the puck for Silas,who's following right behind. Silas carries it wide, drawing two defenders with him, then banks it off the boards to where he knows I'll be.
And I am.
I walk in from the right side, unmarked because they're all watching Silas and Felix. The shot is clean, low, hard. It beats the goalie's pad by an inch and nestles into the back of the net.
5-4.
Eight minutes left.
"Liam, you beautiful bastard!" Felix crashes into me so hard we both almost go down, and then Silas is there too, shaking his glove on my helmet.
"Keep pushing," Silas says, but he's looking at the VIP box as he says it. She's on her feet up there, pumping her fist in the air. Even from here, I can feel her smile.
Brookfield calls timeout. Their coach is animated on the bench, gesturing sharply at his players. He knows momentum has shifted. He knows we're not dead yet.
We gather at our bench, sucking down water and trying to catch our breath. Coach doesn't say much, just "Keep doing that." But Matthews leans over the boards toward us, helmet off, and says, "You guys smell different."
"What?" Felix blinks at him. "What do you mean we smell different?"
"I don't know, just... better. Stronger." Matthews frowns, searching for words. "Like you did in the first period."
I exchange a glance with Silas. Alpha scents shift with emotion, confidence, aggression, determination… I guess that what he means, which is good news, since everyone will play even harder if they smell our fighting spirit.
"Alright team." Coach claps his hands. "You've got eight minutes left. You need at least one more to tie, two to win outright. Make them count."
