I loved it so hard my ribs ached.
Final home game of the season. We'd earned playoffs. This was the bow on top.
I centered myself at the faceoff dot. Skates gripping the ice. Stick light in my hands. My breath fogged in short bursts, and the cold bit at my lungs in a good way.
The ref held the puck overhead.
I didn't look at the clock. Didn't scan for Adrian in the stands. Didn't check whether Coach was watching.
I waited.
The puck dropped.
I won it clean—snapped it back to Desrosiers before their center's stick even moved. My body took over after that. No thought. Pure movement.
I broke left, hard, cutting across the blue line. Evan barked something from the point. I didn't catch the words, but I felt the shape of them—move, now, go.
Their defenseman tried to step up. I faked inside, went outside, and suddenly there was space.
The puck hit my stick off a weird bounce. I corralled it, took two strides, and sent it cross-ice to Jake, who was crashing the far post like a man with a personal vendetta against the goalie.
He buried it.
The lamp lit. The horn blasted. The arena exploded.
Jake slammed into me first, then Evan, and then the rest of the line. We collided in a tangle of gloves and helmets and ridiculous joy. For a second, I couldn't tell where I ended, and they began.
When we broke apart, I skated back to the bench. Coach caught my eye as I hopped over the boards and nodded—one that meantgood shift, keep going.
I sat. Caught my breath. Let the game keep moving.
This was it. Not the goal, not the noise, not the crowd.
Just me, present in my own body, trusting it to know what to do next.
The penalty was entirely my fault.
Second period, tied 2-2, and I got too eager. Their winger had the puck along the boards, and I saw a play developing.
Except I led with my stick instead of my feet, and the hook was obvious enough that the ref's arm went up before I'd even finished the motion.
The whistle blew.
I didn't argue. Just went to the box, sat down, and watched the clock start counting. Two minutes. My fault. Fine.
Our PK unit held. When my penalty expired, I hopped back onto the ice and got to work.
Third period. 3-2, us.
I was on the ice for a defensive zone draw when I saw it—their center was lining up slightly too far forward, weight already shifting toward the boards before the puck even dropped.
He was going to cheat the faceoff.
The puck hit the ice. He moved exactly like I'd predicted, and I was already there. I stepped into the passing lane, caught the puck on my blade, and pivoted hard toward center ice.
Their defenseman lunged. Missed.
Suddenly, I had space. Open space.
