Connor shuts up.
We finish suiting up in focused silence. The familiar ritual grounds me: lacing skates, taping stick, pulling on the jersey that's become a second skin. The smell of sweat and ice and determination fills the room.
Jake stands in the center, and we gather around him.
"Brothers," he says simply. "Let's make this count."
We stack our gloved hands, one on top of the other, and shout our battle cry before exploding out of the locker room.
The tunnel to the ice vibrates with noise. Thousands of fans screaming, music pounding, the energy electric and overwhelming. I close my eyes for just a moment, center myself, and think of Ivy.
This is for us. For our future.
Then I'm on the ice, and everything else disappears.
The first period is brutal.
Both teams are flying, checking hard, fighting for every inch of ice. I take a hit into the boards that rattles my teeth. Tyler gets tangled up with their forward and nearly starts a fight. Misha makes three impossible saves that keep us tied at zero.
By the time the buzzer sounds, we're all gasping for air.
"Keep pushing," Coach barks during the intermission. "They're getting tired. We capitalize in the second."
He's right.
Seven minutes into the second period, I steal the puck at center ice and take off. Their defense man tries to cut me off, but I deke left, then right, my body moving on pure instinct. The goalie squares up, but I see the gap. Five-hole, just barely open.
I shoot.
The puck slides through.
Goal.
The arena explodes. My teammates mob me, pounding my helmet, shouting. But I'm already looking at the stands, searching for the section where I know she's sitting.
There. Row twelve. Ivy jumps to her feet, screaming, her hands pressed to her mouth. Even from here, I can see the joy on her face.
I point at her.
She laughs. Even though I can't hear it over the crowd, I know exactly what it sounds like.
We carry that momentum through the rest of the period. I assist on Jake's goal to make it 2-0. Tyler blocks what should have been an easy score for them. Misha is playing out of his mind, stopping everything they throw at him.
By the third period, the other team is desperate.
They pull their goalie with three minutes left, going for broke with an extra attacker. We're all exhausted, legs burning, lungs screaming. But we hold the line.
Two minutes.
One minute.
Thirty seconds.
Their forward breaks free with the puck, charging toward Misha. I chase him down, my skates eating up ice, and manage to poke-check the puck away just as he shoots. It slides harmlessly wide.
Ten seconds.
The crowd is on its feet, counting down.
