When the puck drops, I’m on the ice within the first shift.
I tell myself one thing and one thing only,simple.
First pass. Clean. Second pass. Clean. I keep my feet moving, my head up, my body loose. No overthinking. No forcing anything.
Midway through the first period, I steal the puck at the blue line and drive it deep, taking a hit along the boards that rattles my shoulders. I stay on my skates. The bench erupts behind me.
That feels good.
The game tightens after that. Both teams are pushing; neither is giving much. I block a shot that stings like hell and bite back a curse, skating it off. I win a faceoff, I shouldn’t. I missed a shot I should’ve buried.
Coach watches me closely from the bench, but I don’t look at him.
In the second period, we get a power play.
I line up, heart pounding, sweat dripping down my spine. This is where I make my case.
The puck drops. Knox sends it back to me. I hesitate—just a beat too long—and the lane closes. I dump it instead of shooting.
The bench goes quiet.
On the next shift, I make up for it. I crash the net, battle through a defender, and tip a shot that squeaks past the goalie’s pad.
Goal.
The sound hits me all at once—the horn, the bench, the guys piling onto the ice. Rocky slams into me first, shouting something I can’t hear.
I skate back to the bench, chest heaving, adrenaline flooding my system. Coach gives me a short nod.
That’s it. No praise. Just acknowledgment.
We head into the third period up by one.
My legs start to feel heavy. My lungs burn. I don’t care.
Late in the period, they tie it up.
I slam my stick against the boards, frustration flaring hot and fast. Coach calls my number.
I hop over the boards, heart hammering.
I chase down the puck in our zone, take a hit, and spin out of it. I send a pass up the ice to Rocky, who takes off like a rocket. I follow, pushing through the ache in my legs.
Rocky draws two defenders and drops it back to me.
The net’s open for half a second.
I don’t hesitate this time.
I shoot.
The puck rips past the goalie and hits the back of the net so hard it snaps the mesh.
For a split second, everything goes quiet.
Then the bench explodes.
I barely register the pileup, the noise, the way my name echoes through the rink. I just stand there, breathing hard, staring at the goal like I need to make sure it’s real.
