I get to it first and clear but they're right back on us.
Two minutes left.
Every heartbeat is a gunshot.
Elijah bodies a winger from the other team off the puck; the impact rattles the boards. I scoop it up, sprint down the right side, trying to buy our team a few precious seconds.
But the other team keeps coming.
One minute left.
Their captain winds up for a slapshot.
I lunge, dropping to one knee, eating the shot off my shin pad so hard it sends a shock up my entire leg.
The crowd ROARS.
Elijah taps my shoulder. "Move!"
We scramble back into position as the Knights reorganize, circling our zone like sharks. Their defenseman blasts another shot — Sergei kicks it away, barely.
Thirty seconds left.
They win the loose puck battle in the corner and whip it to the slot.
A Knights forward redirects it. It's going IN until Elijah sacrifices his entire ribcage and throws himself across the ice, blocking the shot with everything he's got.
The arena explodes.
Ten seconds.
The puck rattles loose again — their winger charges in, desperate, stick cocked.
I sprint.
My lungs burn.
My legs feel like fire.
I slam my stick into his, knocking the puck free, pinning it against the boards as the entire clock bleeds out — three seconds. Two. One.
Then the horn BLARES.
The arena erupts.
I drop to my knees on the ice, sucking in air like I just outran death itself.
WE DID IT.
The Panthers bench explodes onto the ice. Helmets flying. Gloves thrown. Sticks lifted.
Elijah grabs me first, yelling right in my ear as he crushes me in a hug.
THE PANTHERS WIN THE STANLEY CUP.
Again.
"THAT'S IT! WE'RE CHAMPIONS AGAIN!"
