I anticipate their cycle before they execute it. Position myself not where the puck is, but where it's going to be. Whentheir point man thinks he's found the perfect passing lane, I'm already there, stick blade angled to deflect the puck into neutral territory.
The interception springs our counter-attack. Clean breakout, odd-man rush, goal.
This is what playing offense looks like. Not waiting for the hit to come. Taking control. Dictating terms.
"That's why you're the alternate, Tank!" Coach yells as I skate past the bench.
He has no idea. I wear the 'A' because when it matters—when someone I care about is threatened—I don't back down. I don't play safe. I go through whatever's in my way.
Third period. Game tied 2-2. Four minutes left.
Chicago pulls their goalie, flooding our zone with six attackers. The pace ratchets up to playoff intensity, and I feel it in my bones—this is my moment. This is where I prove that Kowalski's mandate means nothing. That I'm not backing down. That I'll take every hit they throw and still be standing.
Their point man winds up for a slap shot through traffic. I read the trajectory instantly, and there's no hesitation. No calculation of risk versus reward. There's only the pure, distilled truth that's been burning in my chest since that meeting:
I protect what's mine.
I drop into the shooting lane as the puck rockets off his stick. Ninety-five miles per hour of vulcanized rubber catches me square in the ribs, finding the gap between shoulder pad and elbow guard. The pain is white-hot, explosive, driving the air from my lungs.
And it feels like victory.
This is what it means to play offense. To step into the fire instead of avoiding it. To choose the pain because the alternative—backing down, playing it safe, letting fear dictate my choices—is worse than any physical punishment.
I hit the ice hard, gasping, seeing stars. My ribs scream in protest, but I'm already pushing myself back up because that's what you do when you've decided to stop being afraid.
"You okay, Tank?" Easton calls from the crease.
I give him a thumbs up, though my ribs might be cracked. It doesn't matter. This is the price of refusing to back down. And I'll pay it every single time.
Two minutes later, riding the adrenaline of earned pain and absolute clarity, I thread a perfect pass through three defenders to spring Cassidy on a breakaway. He buries it top shelf, and the arena explodes.
Game over. 3-2 Mammoths.
The horn blares, and the arena erupts in a deafening roar. The team swarms at center ice, a chaotic symphony of triumph, but I'm barely aware of it.
My eyes are already searching the edge of the ice, the mouth of the tunnel.
And then I find her.
She's standing just inside the corridor, tablet forgotten at her side. Her professional mask is gone, replaced by a smile so bright and full of undisguised pride that it hits me harder than the blocked shot. Our eyes lock across the chaos.
In that single, silent moment, everything crystallizes.
She sees what I just did. She understands what it means.
I didn't just win a hockey game. I proved that I'm done playing by their rules. That I'll take the hit, make the play, and damn the consequences.
The scoreboard says the Mammoths won.
But that look on her face—fierce and proud and completely unguarded—that's the only victory that matters. That's what I went to war for.
And I'd do it again. Every single time.
10
Sloane
Garrett’s grin is the only thing I can see. The world dissolves into a blur of blue and gold confetti and the deafening roar of the victory song, but my entire universe narrows to the pure, unfiltered joy on his face. His teammates swarm him, slapping his helmet, but he just throws his head back and laughs, a triumphant, magnetic figure in the center of the storm.
