The next shift, he threads a pass through two defenders like he’s got a map no one else can see. Tyler redirects it wide, close enough that half the bench groans in unison. Declan just skates back, unflinching, calm as stone.
When the horn sounds for the first intermission, the Foxes are up by one.
I watch the tunnel as he disappears toward the locker room, helmet still on, stick tapping against his leg.
The second starts fast. The Forges come out swinging, desperate to keep their season alive. Every shift is faster, rougher, louder.
The noise inside the arena turns physical, like static crawling up my skin. Trainers are leaning forward now, one hand on the boards, eyes locked on the ice. No one’s sitting.
Declan takes the draw to start the second. The look on his face is pure focus, that steady calm he carries when everything around him’s chaos. He wins it clean, draws the puck back, and the Foxes reset.
The Forges nearly tie it midway through the period: breakaway, quick deke, shot high. Declan cuts the lane at the last second, stick angled perfectly. He gets a piece of it, knocking it wide. The sound of the puck hitting the glass is sharp enough to make the whole bench exhale at once.
Someone behind me murmurs, “Captain’s dialed in tonight.”
He’s everywhere after that. Blocking shots, setting screens, orchestrating the power play like he can see the game five seconds ahead of everyone else.
When Torres buries a rebound late in the period to make it 2–0, the bench explodes. Sticks slam against the boards, gloved hands raised, bodies crashing into one another. I stay steady, tablet gripped tight, but my eyes sting anyway.
All I can think is how far he’s come—from limping down a hallway on crutches to commanding a team on the edge of history.
The horn sounds, ending the period. Declan’s the last one off the ice, tapping Torres’s shoulder as they skate toward the tunnel.
I tap one last note, exhale slowly, and force my pulse to come down.
One more period.
The third starts with a kind of silence that isn’t really silence at all, just the hum before a storm.
The scoreboard reads 2–0. Twenty minutes between them and forever.
The Forges throw everything they have left onto the ice. They’re crashing the net, dumping pucks from every angle, hammering our defense. Every blocked shot feels like it takes a piece out of someone.
From the bench, it’s controlled chaos. Trainers shifting forward, coaches barking line changes, players gulping water and slapping shoulders. I keep my eyes on Declan. Always.
He’s anchored in the middle of it—steady, unreadable, the calm eye in the storm.
Every time the puck’s on his stick, it’s like time slows—as if by magic. But it’s not. It’s muscle memory and willpower and years of refusing to break.
Halfway through the period, the Forges finally get one past our goalie. A screen. A deflection.
2–1.
The crowd detonates, sound ricocheting off concrete. The air feels thinner somehow.
Declan doesn’t flinch. He leans on the boards during the TV timeout, breathing even, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ice. I can almost hear his voice in my head—Reset. Next shift.
When play resumes, he wins the draw, pushes the puck deep, and goes to work. Every stride is sharp, every hit clean. He’s leading with more than talent now—it’s belief, conviction, something deeper than adrenaline.
With less than a minute left, the Forges pull their goalie.
Six attackers. The bench holds its breath. Declan’s line takes the ice.
The puck drops. Chaos.
Declan ties up their center off the draw, battles along the boards, kicks it loose with a clean pivot, and clears it down the ice. Itslides the whole way—slow, perfect, impossible—and finds the empty net.
The final horn blares, and everything explodes around me. Coach yelling, players pounding the boards, the sound folding into one deafening roar.
