And something inside me buckled.
For the first time in years, they’d shown up. And instead of proving I didn’t need them, all I could think wasdon’t let them see you fall apart.My world narrowed to that sound and the red glare of the light spinning behind me.
The bench was dead quiet. Coach had nothing left in him, soGrayson took over. He stood in front of us, helmet under his arm, hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. His voice cut through the noise of the crowd like a blade.
“We arenotlosing to Dallas,” he snapped. “Not like this. Not because we forgot who the hell we are. We dig in. Every. Damn. Shift.”
He looked at me last. No words, just that steady, captain’s glare—equal parts trust and challenge.
My lungs were burning, legs shaking, but I nodded.
Dallas had momentum, sure. But we had anger and a point to prove.
Face-off at center. Puck drop. We charged.
Grayson bulldozed their winger off the draw, sending the puck spinning into their zone. Mason was on it instantly, his skates biting deep into the ice, body low. He chipped it around the boards, feeding Grayson at the point. He wound up—shot!
Blocked.
The rebound kicked straight to Dallas’s star forward, already breaking out.
My pulse spiked.
He came in hot, fast as sin. Two strides past Shawn, one deke around Theo, and then he was on me—shoulder dropped, faking right. I bit, just barely.
He went left.
I dove, stretched full length, glove out.
Caught it.
Barely.
The puck stuck to the leather like it knew it belonged there.
The arena erupted. Dallas fans howled, but our bench roared louder.
That save changed something. I felt it ripple down the bench, aninvisible current.
We reset. My legs ached, arms trembling, but everything narrowed to the ice, the glide, the sound, the pulse of the puck.
Grayson slammed a shoulder into the boards, took possession, and threaded a pass so clean it could’ve been drawn with a ruler. Mason picked it up, streaked down the left side, and launched a wrist shot that flew over the goalie’s blocker and clanged in off the post.
4–3.
The building shook.
Grayson pointed at me across the ice. “Right there! That’s how it’s done!”
I thumped my stick against the ice once, grinning despite the sweat stinging my eyes.
Momentum had shifted. You couldfeelit.
Dallas looked rattled, their crisp passes fraying into panic dumps. We pounced on every mistake.
Four minutes left.
They tried another breakout; I left the crease to cut it off, sent the puck rocketing up the boards to Mason. He flicked it to Grayson, who danced through two defenders like they weren’t even there.
