Silas catches it in stride. The goalie is down, scrambling to recover after positioning himself for my shot. There's maybe six inches of space between his shoulder and the crossbar. It's an impossible angle…
But Silas doesn't hesitate.
He drives his stick into the puck with everything he's got, and the entire arena holds its breath.
Chapter twenty-eight
Silas
This is the kind of shot you miss ninety-nine times out of a hundred.
But not tonight.
The puck rises, spinning through the air. I watch it sail toward that impossible gap between the goalie's blocker and the crossbar.
It catches the inside of the crossbar…
And drops behind the goalie.
Red light.
For a second, nobody moves. The arena is completely silent, thousands of people holding their breath, waiting for a whistle, a wave-off, something to tell them it didn't really happen.
But then, the goal horn sounds.
Felix screams and tackles me. We go down in a heap. Liam piles on. Then Matthews. Vasquez. Brennan. Then the entire team is crushing us into the ice in a tangle of sticks and gloves and sweaty jerseys.
The crowd goes nuclear. I can feel the building shaking through my helmet. Cowbells and air horns and hundreds ofpeople losing their minds because the home team just did the impossible.
We won.
Down 5-2 with fifteen minutes left, and we clawed our way back to win 6-5 with seconds on the clock.
When we finally untangle ourselves and get to our feet, I look for her immediately in the VIP box. She's there, jumping up and down with Mia, both of them hugging and screaming.
"We did it," Felix pants, his arm slung around my shoulders, his grin so wide it looks like it might split his face in half. "We actually fucking did it."
"Yeah," I manage, though my throat is tight with something that has nothing to do with exhaustion.
We line up for the handshake. The Brookfield players file past, tapping gloves, mumbling "good game" with varying degrees of sincerity. Then 52 stops in front of me. Up close, without the fury of competition clouding everything, I can see the respect in his eyes.
"Hell of a game, captain," he says.
"Who are you?" I have to ask. "You're not on their roster."
He grins, and there's no malice in it. "Used to play for Syracuse. Owed Brookfield's coach a favor." He shakes my hand properly, firm grip. "You guys are legit."
Hell yeah we are. At least tonight.
The celebration continues. Matthews gets mobbed, Coach is actually smiling, and the crowd starts chanting "PU-CKERS! PU-CKERS!".
Then the arena announcer's voice booms through the speakers: "Ladies and gentlemen, your captain would like to say a few words!"
Someone shoves a microphone in my hand before I can protest. The crowd noise drops to a dull roar. I'm still in full gear except for my helmet, sweaty, exhausted, running on nothingbut adrenaline… and something else. Something that has to do with the woman still jumping up and down in the VIP box.
"Thank you," I start, and my voice cracks embarrassingly. I clear my throat, try again. "Thank you, Lakeview. To come back from 5-2, tonight of all nights..."
The crowd erupts again.
