Three-nothing.
My teammates are on me before I can even process it, crushing me against the boards. The noise is deafening—just the impact of bodies and sticks and pure adrenaline.
"That was insane!"
"Playoff form right there!"
They score one back before the period ends—a lucky bounce that squeaks through Reeves' pads—but we still head into the third up by two.
Coach keeps it simple between periods. "Don't sit back. Keep attacking. Make them chase."
The third period is about closing it out. They're pressing hard, throwing everything at our net, but we're shutting them down at center ice. Every time they try to build something, we're there breaking up plays.
With five minutes left, Chase draws a penalty.Power play.
I line up for the face-off in their zone. Win it clean and knock it back to our defenseman. The puck moves fast: blue line to the half wall to me in the slot.
I one-time it.
Dubois makes a desperate save, but the rebound pops right to Chase. He roofs it top shelf.
Four-one.
Game over.
We kill the last five minutes, and when the horn sounds, the arena explodes. We mob Reeves, everyone piling on, sticks in the air, already thinking about what comes next.
Playoffs. It's all about the playoffs now.
The locker room's electric afterward. Everyone's hyped, talking about our chances, about how we're going to destroy our first-round opponent. I soak it in: the brotherhood, the confidence, the joy of winning.
But all I can think about is getting home toher.
Chase catches my eye across the room and raises an eyebrow. He knows exactly what I'm thinking.
"Go," he mouths.
I shower fast, dress faster. By the time I'm heading out, most of the team's still celebrating.
Maya's waiting by my truck, leaning against the passenger door, phone in hand. She's in jeans and my jersey—number twenty-five visible under her unzipped jacket. Her curls are pulled back, pendant hidden beneath the jersey.
"Hey, superstar," she says when I reach her.
"Hey, yourself."
I kiss her right here in the parking lot where anyone could see.
"You were incredible tonight," she says against my mouth. "That second goal was perfection."
"Team effort."
"Jackson Anderson is being modest. Shocking."
I grin and open her door. "Get in. I want to get home."
The drive takes fifteen minutes. Emma mentioned earlier that she and Chase are taking Ethan to visit Mom for the weekend before the playoffs get crazy.
Which means the house is empty, just me, Maya, and an entire weekend.
