His eyes flare wide, and then he grins feral and full of fire. “Fuck no, they’re not.”
Mats drops in on Cole’s other side, Viktor stays standing, and Tyler’s pacing like a nervous wreck, muttering something about how he’s never wanted to kill someone with a puck more in his life.
Coach stomps down the aisle behind us, chewing his gum. “Third period’s ours,” he growls. “Go out there and break them.”
I glance up at the jumbotron—final period, tie game. One more shot. One last twenty minutes. Win it here… or lose everything.
I close my eyes for a second.Come on, Cap. Watch me. Watch me make you proud.
The third period opens and the Icehawks hit the ice like they’ve already won. I see it in the way they move—tight, arrogant, smug bastards skating like they think we’re going to roll over and let them take the Cup. And for a second, the Reapers aren’t fast enough. The puck slips through our line, gets dumped to their winger, and he launches it.
It hits net.
It hits the fucking net.
4–3.
My stomach caves in.
The barn explodes in gold jerseys jumping, screaming, pounding against the boards. I can’t hear. My legs are stone.
No. I will not lose this game. I will not lose this Cup.
I skate so hard my blades carve trenches. I hunt the puck. I slash through their defense. Cole sees me and feeds me the pass clean across the crease. I grab it, one beat and no hesitation, and shoot as the puck flies top right past the glove and into the net with a sound that splits the world in two—4–4.
The scream that rips out of me is primal. I throw my arms up, Cole tackles me into the boards, and we both go down in a heap of gear, snarling and laughing and losing our goddamn minds.
The Reapers surge off the bench, and the barn goes feral. Sixty seconds. That’s all that’s left on the clock when I skate tothe bench and yell, “TIME OUT!” Coach is already hurling his clipboard, and everyone’s panting, eyes wide, hearts thundering in their chests.
I find Viktor and grab him by the shoulder. “I need you with me.”
His eyes are calm, deadly, already locked in. “We pull the goalie,” he says like it’s law. “I’ll be there. You just win the faceoff.”
I nod once, sharp and fast. Then we’re back on the ice—six against five.
The announcer’s voice crackles through the arena: “The Reapers have pulled their goalie—six attackers on the ice now. Ladies and gentlemen, buckle the fuck up.”
The crowd loses it, screaming so loud the glass shakes as Viktor waits at the blue line, Cole at my side, Mats, Tyler, and Coach all yelling from behind the bench. I drop into position. The ref drops the puck—and I win it.
It turns into a goddamn brawl for control. I take the faceoff but barely keep the puck before one of the Hawks slams into me, sending me crashing into the boards hard enough to make my ears ring. I don’t go down. I lock my grip on my stick, keep my eyes on the puck, and refuse to stop even when he tries to pin me there.
Then Viktor appears like a demon in red and black and rips the guy off me, hurling him aside. “GO!” Viktor roars.
I shove off the glass, stumble, spin and see Cole. I pass and he takes off, skating hard and fast, fluid as water, dodging one, two, three Hawks like he’s dancing through traffic. Mats slides into position, tapping his stick once—Cole sends it flying.
I bolt.
Skates screaming and lungs shredding, every muscle burning like I’m made of fire as Mats sees me and flicks the puck cleanand perfect into my path and I catch it, with no time to think before I shoot and it hits, net, and the horn explodes.
I don’t even hear it at first—not over my own scream, so raw my throat tears. I slam my stick down, throw my head back and roar because we did it, WE FUCKING DID IT—
Suddenly the weight hits me. Cole’s first, tackling me from behind. Mats piles on. Then Tyler. Then everyone. Viktor’s there, snarling and smiling, and Coach is screaming from the bench like he’s been possessed by Satan and it’s beautiful.
The crowd goes feral.
We’re a heap of black and red and sweat and teeth, howling at the sky, and someone grabs my face, yells “YOU FUCKING DID IT, CURLS!” and someone else punches the ice because they can’t believe it and—
We won.
