"Alright, listen up!" Coach barks, clipboard in hand. "This is our last tune-up before the playoffs. Marchetti's been on fire for them this season, so someone needs to shut him down. Cap, that's on you."
"Got it, Coach."
"And their goalie Dubois? Low shots are getting through on him. Exploit that." He looks around the room. "Now get out there and show me you're ready for what's coming."
We take the ice for warm-ups, and the arena's already deafening. I do my usual routine: figure eights, wrist shots, and stretch out the legs. Chase skates over and taps my shin pads with his stick.
"You ready for this?" he asks.
"Always."
"Maya's here. Family section, row three."
"I know."
He grins. "You're so fucked, Cap. In the best way."
The puck drops at seven, and we come out flying. I win the opening faceoff, knocking it back to our defenseman, who sends it into their zone. Chase and I go after it hard, pressuring before they know what’s hit them.
Marchetti grabs the puck behind their net and tries to skate it out. I'm on him immediately, using my body to pin himagainst the boards. He tries to muscle past me, but I've got position. The puck comes loose. Chase scoops it up and fires it toward the net.
Their goalie, Dubois, makes the save, but the puck bounces back out. Our winger crashes in and buries it.
One-nothing. Thirty seconds in.
The bench goes wild. I skate past, and the guys slam their gloves against mine as we line up for the next faceoff.
"That's how we fucking start!" Chase yells.
The game settles after that. They push back, trying to establish their own pressure. Marchetti's dangerous—quick and creative. I shadow him every shift, making sure he doesn't get comfortable.
Halfway through the first period, he gets a step on me at center ice. I backcheck hard, catching up just as he enters our zone. He cuts toward the middle and tries to wrap the puck around the net. I get my stick in there and knock it away. Suddenly, we're heading the other way.
I carry it through the center with Marchetti chasing me now. Chase flies down the left side, calling for it. I wait until the last second, then thread a pass between two defenders right onto his stick.
Chase rips it.
Dubois gets a piece, but it trickles through.
Two-nothing.
The arena loses it. I skate to Chase, and we crash into the boards together, the rest of the line piling on.
"Beauty pass, Cap!" Chase shouts.
We're controlling the game now. Every line's clicking; our defense is shutting them down. Dubois is facing shot after shot, and even though he's keeping them in, you can see the pressure building.
The second period starts, and they come out desperate. Their coach must have ripped into them because they're playingmore dangerously now, finishing every hit, trying to get under our skin.
Marchetti catches me with an elbow in the corner. Not dirty, just hard. I give it right back, pinning him against the glass.
"You're done, Anderson," he says. "We're coming back."
"Not tonight."
The play moves up ice. I push off and join the rush. Our defenseman fires a shot from the blue line. It hits bodies in front and deflects high. I track it, time my jump, and swat it out of the air.
The puck rockets past Dubois.
