Just focus.
A Vortex defender charges me, trying to bait me into the bad version of myself—the guy who hits first and thinks later.
But I don’t fall for it.
I pull up, shift to the inside, and slip past him in one smooth, effortless motion.
The crowd reacts instantly, a ripple of surprise giving way to cheers. Even the announcer’s voice cracks over the speakers.
At the blue line, I thread a pass across the slot. Max meets it in stride and fires. The puck hits the net, the horn blares, and the whole bench rises to its feet, clapping and cheering.
The second period starts harder. Edmonton goes dirty fast:
A shove after the whistle.
An elbow to the ribs.
Comments meant to claw under my skin.
Dom mutters a warning as he skates past. “Let it roll off you, Liam. Don’t bite.”
For the first time in my life, I don’t.
The puck swings around the boards. Mikey kicks it up the ice with perfect timing, and it lands on my stick like it was meant for me.
I drive forward, cut inside the last defender, and rip a shot into the top corner.
The horn erupts.
The crowd surges.
My teammates crash into me, shouting, laughing, tapping my helmet.
Max yells, “Cal’s back!”
Connor adds something ridiculous that Dom smacks him for, but I’m too dialed in to catch the exact phrasing.
The third period crawls by, the score locked at 3–3. I skate back to the bench after a clean shift, breathing steady, in control… and that’s when I notice Coach isn’t smiling.
He isn’t pumped.
He looks… unhappy.
It throws me for a second.
I’ve played one of my best games in months, and somehow he looks like I’ve disappointed him.
Before I can make sense of it, he taps my shoulder for the final shift.
“Callaghan,” he says, voice flat. “Go.”
I push the confusion aside.
I’m on a winning streak—not just in the game, but in my own damn head.
So I shrug it off, take a breath, and hop the boards.
I skate out, and the noise in my head goes silent. The arena isn’t loud anymore—it’s focused, like the entire building is watching the puck the same way I am.
