My legs answer.
No burn. No lag. Just power.
I dump the puck deep to start the cycle, crash the corner, and absorb a hit that would normally rattle me this early in the game. Instead, I stay upright, spin off the boards, and come out with the puck. Murph is already there, shoulder-to-shoulder, grinding. Lennie curls high, stick ready.
I feed him. Shot. Rebound. Chaos.
The whistle blows after a scramble in front of the net, and I skate away grinning like an idiot.
On the bench, I lean forward with my hands on my knees, waiting for the familiar burn to hit. It doesn’t. My pulse settles faster than it should. My breath evens out.
“What’s up, Dubs?” Murph mutters, nudging my shin pad with his stick. “You look like you just stepped on the ice fresh.”
I shrug, still catching my breath out of habit more than need. “Must be adrenaline.”
“Bullshit,” Lennie says. “You’re flying.”
I am.
When Coach sends us back out two shifts later, I feel it again. The push. The drive. The way my body keeps answering when I ask it to give more. I chase down a puck I have no business reaching, beat the icing call by a hair, and force their goalie to play it under pressure.
As I peel off for a change, my brain finally catches up to my body.
This isn’t adrenaline.
This is fuel.
I think of vacuum-sealed bags. Handwritten labels. The quiet intensity in Minerva’s eyes when she explained macros like it mattered. Like I mattered.
I hop the boards, lungs heaving, and for the first time all season, I’m not wondering how long I can keep this pace.
I’m wondering how much harder I can push.
By the second period, the Redhawks start adjusting.
They lean on us heavier. Finish every check. Try to slow the game down by force. It works on some guys. You can see the fatigue creep in, the minor delays in reaction time, the extra half-second before a pivot.
It doesn’t hit me.
Coach rolls the lines hard, and when he sends Viktor’s unit out against their top pairing, we’re right behind them, expected to maintain pressure. Normally, this is where I start rationing energy. Shorter strides. Smarter routes.
Tonight, I don’t.
We get pinned in our zone after a bad bounce, and I’m the first one back, lifting a stick, clearing the puck off the boards with enough control to start a breakout instead of just surviving it. I swing through neutral ice, call for the puck, and get it in stride.
The Redhawks winger tries to close the gap. I burn him wide.
My legs feel… springy. That’s the only word for it. Responsive. I cut toward the net, draw a defender, and dish the puck to Murph who’s crashing far post. He gets robbed, but the chance is there because I had the gas to make it.
“Figures,” Viktor says. “Hale’s assistant turns him into an acceptable wingman, yours turns you into a machine.”
“She’s not turning me—” I stop myself. Because officially, I guess she is. “She knows her shit.”
That’s an understatement.
Midway through the period, I take a long shift. Too long. Normally, my legs would be screaming by now, lungs burning as I chase one more loose puck out of sheer stubbornness.
Instead, I win the race.
