I tossed the puck out to our D-man, who pushed it up ice. Surge fans rose from their seats, desperate for a breakaway. Mason caught it, spun off a defender, and fired it deep.
I stayed crouched, locked in. My breath slowed. The noise became a dull droning in my ears.
Another Ducks rush. I kicked out the first shot, blocked the second with my chest, and sprawled to sweep the rebound with my stick. My glove hand stung, but I had it.
The crowd erupted. I didn’t pump my fist. I didn’t even smile. I just stood, handed the puck to the ref, and reset.
Shift after shift, we clawed. Anaheim was relentless, but I was in the groove now, sliding post-to-post, cutting angles, glove and pad flashing. For a few minutes, it felt like the world narrowed to the size of my crease.
“Nice read,” Theo chirped after I stoned their winger on a one-timer.
“Nice block,” I shot back.
Mason’s words echoed every time I dropped to butterfly:Be Hunter.
Midway through the third, Anaheim drew a penalty. We went on the power play. Mason banged one off the crossbar, but it stayed out.
My heart hammered, but my head was clear.
Then, with three minutes left, it happened.
A turnover at our blue line. Two Ducks broke free, shorthanded. Theo dove but missed. They snapped a pass cross-ice. I lunged, glove out.
The puck hit the post, kissed my skate blade, and trickled over the line.
Goal.
The horn blared like a siren in my skull.
The crowd groaned, a low, sick sound that cut straight to my gut.
I stayed on my knees, staring at the puck in the net. I’d been perfect all period, and still it wasn’t enough.
Theo skated over, tapped my pad. “It’s okay. We’ll pull it back.”
We didn’t pull it back.
The final buzzer sounded with the scoreboard reading Ducks 3, Surge 2.
I stood, helmet heavy, sweat dripping into my eyes. Around me, sticks clattered against the ice in frustration. Mason ripped his helmet off, jaw tight.
We lined up for the handshake, going through the motions. My hands felt numb inside my gloves.
From the corner of my eye, I caught Holly in the stands. Her notebook was closed now, but she was still watching me, expression unreadable. Not smug. Not disappointed. Just… there.
I skated off with the guys, head down, and followed them into the tunnel. The noise of the arena faded behind us, replaced by the hiss of skates on concrete and the low mutter of curses.
I ripped my helmet off, wiping sweat from my face with my sleeve.
“Callahan!” one of the trainers called. “Press room in ten.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, pulling off my gloves. My arms ached. My chest felt hollow.
The hallway outside the press room smelled like stale coffee and linoleum. I trudged toward it, running over in my head what I’d say. We fought hard. We’ll regroup. We’ll do better next time. I needed to check with Holly what my official line was about Grayson’s absence and me stepping in to co-captain.
I rounded the corner and, as if my thoughts materialized, she was there. Leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over her chest. No notebook in sight. Just her, cool and collected. Her hair was loose now, but it didn’t do much to soften the stern look on her face.
“Go home,” she said, her tone colder than the arena. “You’re done for the night.”
