Elias swings wide, cuts sharp, and grabs the puck in a tight turn that makes the boards shudder. He dodges one Hawk, then another, weaving through gold. Ahead of him, Cole’s already jabbing at the goalie, a one-man war zone in front of the crease, drawing attention. Elias doesn’t hesitate. He passes under a stick, threading the puck like silk.
Cole backhands it across without even looking, instinct driving the pass, and Elias catches it on pure reflex, no hesitation, nomercy. He slams it home, top shelf, clean as hell and vicious enough to rattle the glass.
5–3. Seven minutes left on the clock. Still bleeding, but breathing again.
The crowd turns on itself. Hawks fans start screaming, booing, fists in the air like it’ll change the score. But the Reapers’ side? They light up.
And Elias is already bolting for the bench. His eyes are wild—lit with fire, with the kind of dangerous joy that only shows up when he's already bleeding for it. He skates straight for me, full speed, no hesitation.
He slams into the boards, face inches from mine, dripping sweat and panting. “I’m back,” he breathes.
I grab his cage, yank him closer until our foreheads touch, metal to metal. “You never fucking left.”
The puck drops and Cole is gone. Not skating, flying. He rips down the left side, chirping the entire way—“I’M GONNA MAKE OUT WITH THE CUP, BABY! GET READY FOR TONGUE!”
Mats is with him.
The Hawks’ defense starts to collapse on Cole—he wants them to. He lures them. Then, right before the crease, he flips it behind him, no-look, straight into Mats’ stick. Mats slaps it. It rings off the post, and drops in.
5–4.
Gold jerseys look shocked. Our fans detonate. Cole howls and jumps onto Mats like he just proposed.
Elias is screaming behind me on the bench. “ONE MORE! ONE MORE!”
And then it’s my turn. Faceoff. I push off with blood in my mouth and fire burning in my chest. The puck hits the ice, and I muscle past the first Hawk, shoulder cracking hard against his ribs as I rip the puck free.
Viktor’s already there. He flicks it back to me without even looking—some kind of Russian witchcraft—and I spin, shoot, watch it rebound.
Viktor charges in, skates cutting deep, and with one clean strike—5–5.
The sound is indescribable. Shane punches the air. Tyler launches his gloves into the ceiling. Elias grabs Cole by the ears and yells something about godhood.
We’ve done it.
Tied.
With only twenty seconds left on the clock, we get cocky—too confident in our momentum, too aggressive with the play. We press in hard, trying to squeeze one more shot out of them, and that’s all it takes. A single misstep. A bad read. One heartbeat too long in the wrong zone. And just like that, the Hawks intercept.
Their winger—number 81, and I swear to God I’ll remember his number forever—snatches the puck. He cuts clean through our line, gliding past Tyler with barely a stutter, then skates around Mats. Every move is fluid. Then, when we think he’s about to fire, he pulls the dirtiest fake I’ve seen all series. Quick, cold, and devastating.
Shane sees it. He reads the play like it’s scripture carved into the ice. His body reacts before his brain does, diving out to block it with everything he’s got.
And still, the puck slips past him.
6–5, Hawks.
Ten seconds left on the clock. No time to answer. No time to recover.
Only that ringing, echoing sound of betrayal as the buzzer cuts through the stadium and the wrong side cheers.
Shane is still sprawled in the crease, motionless, his body twisted in a way that reads more like defeat than pain. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Then, suddenly, violently, he roars.The sound rips out of him, primal and guttural, echoing across the rink. He lifts his stick and slams it into the ice with so much force that it snaps clean in half. The blade goes flying into the boards. The shaft clatters across the crease and spins out like shrapnel.
Tyler flinches hard, Cole swears under his breath, and Viktor doesn’t even blink. Elias just stares—wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, hands gripping the boards like they’re the only thing holding him up, shock written all over his face.
Then he turns.
He doesn’t look at any of us. He storms toward the tunnel in full gear, helmet still on, stick clenched so tight in one fist it looks like he’s going to shatter that too. His skates carve the ice with each step, sharp and furious, every stride louder than the last.
