We know.
Brookfield comes out aggressive, trying to smother our momentum before it can build. They cycle the puck in our zone, patient and precise, probing for weakness. Number 52 has the puck near the blue line. I read his eyes, see the shot coming before he takes it, and drop to block. The puck hits my shin pad and bounces right to Felix's stick.
"Go!" I yell, still on my knees.
He does. And it's like he's flying. Only Silas keeps up, matching him stride for stride on the other side. They enter the zone together, Felix driving wide, Silas cutting hard to the net.
The defenseman has to choose. He picks Felix.
Wrong choice.
Felix slides the puck across to Silas, who's alone in front of an empty net. He doesn't miss.
5-5.
The building shakes. Actually physically shakes from the thousands of people losing their minds at once. Five minutes left.
"One more," Silas pants as we change lines. "One more and we win this thing."
But Brookfield isn't going to hand it to us. They lock it down, playing pure defense, chipping the puck out every time we get close. Time bleeds away in agonizing increments. Four minutes. Three and a half. Three.
"Pull Matthews," I tell Silas during a TV timeout. "Extra attacker. We need the numbers."
"With three minutes left?" Silas frowns. "That's early. If they score on the empty net—"
"They're playing not to lose. They'll sit on this tie and take their chances in overtime." I grab his jersey, make him look at me. "We need the extra man. Now."
Silas looks at Coach, who's been listening. Coach nods slowly.
Two and a half minutes left. Matthews skates to the bench. We're now six skaters against five plus their goalie. The math is simple, but the execution is chaos.
Brookfield clears the puck. We retrieve it, bring it back. They clear it again. We bring it back again. The seconds tick away—two minutes, one forty-five, one thirty.
Felix gets the puck at the point and looks for a shooting lane. Nothing. He passes to me on the right side. I slide it down low to Silas, who's battling for position in front of the net. He tries to jam it through a forest of legs and sticks. No luck. The puck squirts out toward center ice.
Vasquez saves it at the blue line, just barely keeping it in the zone. Back to Felix. One minute left.
The crowd is on its feet, screaming our names, but I can barely hear them over my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. Felix shoots from the point. The goalie saves. The rebound kicks out and Silas is on it, but so is 52, and they battle along the boards, sticks and skates and elbows, neither giving an inch.
The puck pops free. I grab it, look up. The net is a maze of bodies, everyone's in the way. No clean shot. Thirty seconds.
"Liam!" Felix calls from the slot.
I thread the pass through two defenders. Felix shoots with everything he's got. The entire building holds its breath…
But the shot is blocked by 67, who appears from nowhere. The puck bounces high, floating through the air in slow motion.
Fifteen seconds.
Silas tracks it, positions himself as it drops. He swings at it out of the air, but the puck glances off his stick and skitters toward the corner. Brennan dives, keeps it in, shovels it back toward the slot.
Ten seconds.
The puck lands on my stick. I look up, searching for a lane, but sticks block every angle. Then I see Silas cutting toward the netfrom the weak side, completely unmarked. Everyone's focused on me.
I don't hesitate. I send it across, a hard pass that threads through the chaos and lands perfectly on his tape.
Five seconds.
