Stonehill sensed the equalizer.They forechecked like hornets, crashing the blue paint, slashing at my pads after the whistle.
I stayed narrow.I stayed deep.
At 12:14, their winger broke loose on the left side.He wound up for a slap shot.
I telescoped out, cutting the angle.He fired—high glove, aiming for the ear hole.
I watched the puck all the way in.I forced my eyes to lock on the rotation of the rubber.Quiet eye.
My glove hand flashed out—not a windmill, a precise snare.
Snap.
I caught it clean.I held it for a beat, freezing the play, then flicked the puck to the ref with unnecessary spin.
I glanced up at Section 104 in time to see the scout make a note on his tablet.My dad leaned over and said something to him, looking satisfied.
See?I thought.Singular.
But I wasn’t doing it for them.
Time bled out.The clock ticked down: 2:00… 1:30… 1:00.
Stonehill pulled their goalie.Six skaters against our five.
“Empty net!”Ryan yelled.“Heads up!”
The chaos increased.Bodies everywhere.Sticks hacking.
The puck came back to the point.Shot—blocked by Ryan.Rebound.Shot again—wide.
It bounced off the backboard and came out the other side.A Stonehill forward jumped on it.He had a half-open net.
I pushed across—RVH.I slammed my skate into the post and sealed the ice, leaning my shoulder into the iron.
I didn’t dive.I didn’t swim.I let the geometry do the work.I became a wall.
The shot jammed into my pad stack.I held the seal.I didn’t give an inch.
The buzzer sounded.
3–1 Demons.Postseason alive.
The team mobbed me.Ryan slammed his helmet against my chest protector, screaming.“That’s a statement, Monk!That is a statement!”
Javier punched my glove.“Stone.Cold.”
I tapped both posts one last time.
I looked up to the north end.
The crowd was filtering out, a sea of navy blue.But he was still there.
Austen was standing.He wasn’t cheering.He wasn’t jumping up and down.He was watching me, his hands deep in his coat pockets.
He had been right about the eyes and the math.Most importantly, he was right about me not needing to be a hero; I needed to be a constant.
He raised a hand—a small, tentative wave.
