Suddenly it’s an odd-man rush the other way—two Seattle players break clean down the wing with a Maverick defenseman trailing a step behind.
Garrett doesn’t panic. He reads the passing lane, tracks the shooter’s hips, feels the seconds stretching out like taffy.
They close in fast, then the pass comes, sharp across the slot to the backdoor man, who drops his blade and fires off a one-timer.
Garrett explodes across the crease, body low, glove up.
Thwack.
It hits him square in the chest, a brutal impact he barely feels, and drops dead in the paint.
He smothers it immediately, glove and pad trapping the puck like a steel door slamming shut.
The whistle cuts through the arena. A surge of noise rushes up all around him.
Still tied.
He’s not done yet.
CHAPTER 31
NAOMI
Naomi is going to throw up. Or scream. Possibly both.
She’s on the edge of her seat—literally, her bum is halfway off the cushion, legs cramping, heart thudding like it’s trying to break out of her chest and leap onto the ice.
Overtime is three-on-three madness, and no one warned her it would be this insane. Every time the Kraken touch the puck, she flinches. Every time Garrett drops into a butterfly save, she stops breathing.
He looks calm. Unreasonably so. Like an enormous gargoyle guarding the gates to hockey heaven. Or in this case, a net that’s way too small for his big ass. Overtime ends with no score, and Naomi is both relieved and a second away from passing out. She’s not built for this. She’s a marketing girl with strong opinions about fonts, not someone who handles high-stakes professional sports.
The word SHOOTOUT flashes across the jumbotron in giant, bloodthirsty letters. The arena erupts. Naomi, however, sits frozen in place, mouth slightly open, heart galloping, one palm flat over her chest like she can physically keep herself from dying.
On the ice, Garrett skates to the bench, leans in to hear whatever the old guy in the suit is saying—something tactical, probably. Or maybe just “don’t let them score, Big Goalie Man.” Whatever it is, Garrett nods once, taps the boards with his stick, and turns.
He skates back alone, gliding to his crease. The other goalie takes his spot at the opposite end of the ice. They face each other, silent giants in matching cages, waiting to be tested.
The first Kraken player flies down the center of the ice, and Naomi braces for heartbreak. But Garrett stays tall—gets big—bats the puck away with his stick like he’s shooing a fly.
The second shooter fakes high, cuts low—Garrett slides with him, glove out. Denied.
The third guy tries the fancy little backhand move. Garrett doesn’t bite. He stops the puck cleanly and the guy nearly face-plants into the boards.
By the fourth shot, Naomi is holding her breath so hard she’s dizzy. The shooter winds up, snaps off a shot—Glove. Boom. Caught like it’s nothing.
Four saves.
Garrett stands tall in the crease, barely reacting. Like this is just another drill. Just another night.
But Naomi is screaming inside.
Finally, finally, when a Mavericks forward is sent out, he streaks down the ice, drops his shoulder, and rips one top shelf, clean past the Kraken goalie. The red light flashes.
The Mavs win.
The bench empties. Garrett’s mobbed at the crease—teammates crashing into him, thumping his back. He disappears into the crush of bodies. Cheers echo through the arena as the Mavericks celebrate.
Naomi is on her feet, screaming herself hoarse and hoping he can hear her over the roar.
