A shot came screaming in low. I dropped too early, caught it late. It slipped between my pads and kissed the back of the net.
2–1, Dallas.
The horn blared. The crowd’s roar turned jagged with anger, disbelief, noise. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even hear Grayson shouting from the circle.
My chest ached, sharp and mean.
They came. Theyfinallycame and it had to be like this?
I forced myself upright, tapped the post twice, the way I always did. Reset. But my glove was shaking. My heart couldn’t pick a lane. And I was so angry I could’ve snapped my stick in half.
Another drop. Another rush.
Seven minutes on the clock.
Dallas smelled blood. They came faster, sharper. Theo dove to block a one-timer, but it kicked back to their winger. I lunged to cover the short side, he hesitated, then slipped it cross-crease.
I followed a beat late. The puck slid under my pad and tapped the net.
3–2 Dallas.
The horn blared, cruel and bright.
I stayed on my knees, staring at the puck in the back of the net. The cold from the ice bit through my gear. My breath came uneven, hot against the inside of my mask.
They were still there. I couldfeeltheir eyes on me. Eli was bouncing, shouting encouragement I couldn’t hear. Mom clapped once, uncertain. Noah leaned back, unreadable.
Every old memory crowded in. Dad’s empty chair at junior games, Mom’s polite texts after losses, Eli’s “sorry we couldn’t make it.”
Now they’d pickedthismoment to show up.
Dallas reset at center ice. I forced myself upright, twirled my stick,bounced once in the crease. The crowd’s noise was a pounding drum.
Focus.
Puck drop. Dallas again. Their sniper streaked down the right side. I read the angle, squared up, he faked a shot, passed to the slot. My glove twitched left; the puck went right.
Another shot, fast, low.
It hit my pad, popped loose.
My stick slipped.
The rebound flipped upward… and in.
4–2.
The sound was deafening.
I pressed my mask against the post, eyes shut for one second, just to breathe. The cold metal steadied me, barely. My team skated past, slapping my pads, telling me to shake it off. But I could feel it, the momentum shifting, faith cracking.
Tucker tapped my blocker. “We’ll get it back, man. Need you on your feet, though. Come on.”
I nodded, but my throat was tight.
Across the ice, Dallas players were celebrating against the glass right below my family’s section. My family was standing now, awkward in their seats, trying to figure out how to react.
Every instinct in me screamed to look away, to bury the sight, to reset. But I couldn’t stop glancing up. Mom’s eyes met mine. Just for a second.
