The clock’s bleeding seconds, the game’s tied, and it hits me—not a single penalty all game. Not one fight, one scrum, one drop of blood on the ice. The Icehawks aren’t here to hurt us; they’re here to dismantle us. And that’s almost worse.
The third period’s halfway done. Score’s 3–3. And I’m running on fumes.
Every shift takes more than it gives. My thighs are burning, my lungs are tight, and somewhere under it all, my brain’s screaming what if we lose in ten different accents.
Then it happens.
Tyler.
Fucking Tyler.
He’s skating fast, eyes wide, clumsy like always—but this time, he doesn’t fumble. This time, he’s right where he needs to be. The puck bounces off the boards, hard, and everyone expects it to ricochet off his skate and die in the neutral zone.
But no. The little bastard catches it, clean, steady, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, and then he passes. A single wicked slice across the ice straight to Mats, who’s already breaking past the last defenseman.
And Mats doesn’t miss.
The goal horn screams. The bench erupts. The Reapers’ side of the crowd damn near combusts.4–3.
Tyler blinks, frozen in place like he doesn’t even believe what he just did.
And I laugh. I laugh so hard my ribs hurt, and I skate to him first. Before Mats. Before anyone. I grab his helmet with both hands, yank him close enough our cages clack together, and shout, “YOU BEAUTIFUL STUPID LEGEND!”
His mouth’s hanging open, like he’s still buffering.
Mats slams into us both a second later, roaring with victory, and then the whole bench crashes over the boards, dogpiling, shouting, alive with it. Because for the first time all game, we’re winning.
Sixty seconds left.
They pull their goalie.
Oh fuck. Oh shit.
It’s six against five now, and the Hawks are swarming.
We’re pinned against our own goddamn crease, sticks clashing, legs tangled, bodies flying. The puck’s bouncing and no one can get control. Shane’s eyes are locked on it, crouched so low he’s practically part of the ice, every nerve in his body twitching.
I can’t breathe.
The Hawks are everywhere—sharp, merciless.
Then—“PUP!” Damian’s voice cuts through everything.
I whip my head around, and he’s already freed the puck. I don’t know how the hell he did it—brute force, dark magic, maybe sold his soul to the hockey gods—but it’s loose and it’s mine.
I bolt. My blades scream against the ice as I tear down the rink, cutting through the chaos, everything around me a blur of sound and light. The barn explodes behind me, black and red erupting in the stands, and I skate faster than I’ve ever moved in my goddamn life.
The Hawks are chasing—I can feel them behind me, their speed, their desperation nipping at my heels. But the net’s ahead. Empty. Waiting. Begging.
Closer. Closer—I pull back, twist my wrists, and snap—CRACK.
The puck flies. Time slows.
And then—NET.YES, MOTHERFUCKER!!
The horn goes feral. And I’m screaming, arms raised, lungs wrecked, heart slamming into my ribs like it’s trying to punch its way out.
“YES!!” I howl, spinning as my skates carve across the ice, the world blurring around me just before the boys slam into me. Cole tackles me first, knocking the wind out of my lungs with laughter, Shane right behind him yelling something unhinged about holy water. Mats wraps an arm around my neck, yelling in rapid-fire Spanish, while Tyler’s crying again, full-body shaking like it’s the end of a movie. And Viktor nods once like this was always the plan.
