Puck drops.
I win it clean. Blades dig deep, stick slices low, and I’m gone. I don’t pass. I pivot, slip the first defenseman, snap right past the second, feel the slash of his stick against my hip and don’t even flinch.
I see the lane open. The goalie shifts. Too slow, too late.
Mine. I flick my wrist, lightning-fast, top shelf, right over his glove. The net snaps, and the fans scream.
I don’t even hear the horn over the crowd, just the roar. A wall of sound. The sea of Reapers fans screaming my name. I turn, stick raised, fire burning through my veins, and I scream.
One goal. The first goal. First blood of the finals.
And I drew it.
Damian slams into me from behind, arms wrapping tight, voice rough against my helmet as he growls, “That’s my fucking center.”
The team piles in, charging from across the ice like it’s war won. The bench erupts into chaos, fans losing their minds in the stands. I glance toward the glass, and there’s Captain Jr., smashed up against the plexi by some poor fan, arms flung wide like he just hit the damn lottery.
God, I love this game.
Cole’s screaming, full lungs, skating wild loops. Shane slams his stick against the goalpost so hard the refs flinch. Viktor grins—grins, the bastard—and punches Mats in the shoulder like that’s his version of celebration. Even Tyler yells something that almost sounds like confidence.
It spreads like blood in water.
We're not backing down. We're coming for the Cup.
Next shift, Cole lines up beside me, bouncing on his blades, eyes glowing. He taps the toe of my skate with his, leans in, and mutters behind his mouthguard, “You keep skating like that, curls, I’ll let you name my firstborn.”
I smirk. “Only if it’s ugly.”
“Then it’s already halfway to Elias Jr.,” he chirps, and the ref drops the puck before I can throat-punch him.
We explode off the line.
The Icehawks aren’t smiling anymore. They're scrambling.
We slice through them like knives through silk. Puck flies between us like it’s wired into our blood, Cole weaving around one defenseman, then another, then looping the puck behind his back—blind—right to me.
I don’t think. I don’t need to. One touch. One flick. Net.
Second goal.
I scream, "HOLY SHIT, HOLLYWOOD!" as Cole launches himself at me full-speed, knocking me into the boards with a manic cackle. We’re laughing, skating back to the bench like gods dripping sweat and sin.
Behind us, the Icehawks huddle tight.
Next shift, the Hawks bite back. Like they were waiting for the sting to wake them up. First goal’s a sniper shot from the blue line. Shane barely flinches before it’s past him. Their bench erupts, smug and screaming. Our crowd gets quieter for a second. Just enough to feel it.
Then they do it again. Turnover at center ice, breakaway, and fuck—before we can scramble, it’s back of the net.
Tied.
The Hawks just nod to each other like robots rebooting mid-game. Like they expected this. Like they’re not even playing for pride, but for precision.
And it’s working.
By the time the buzzer ends the second period, it’s 2–2 and I’m seething.
Tyler looks like he’s going to throw up. Shane slams his water bottle. Mats punches the door as we skate off. And Cole’s too quiet. Too still. Eyes on the ice like he’s memorizing the cracks.
