But the puck sliced by me, a determined forward still attached.
Hunter recovered, becoming larger than life in his posts. But it couldn’t help the clinical angle, the perfectly timed slap that shook the net. My stomach dropped, a twist of frustration and guilt tangling in my ribs. 2–0 to Minnesota Wild.
Time passed like molasses after that, but at the same time, faster than a blink. It was all a scrambling blur of turnovers, sloppy discipline, and scuffles randomly breaking out. Mason nearly snagged a rebound when his stick flicked just shy of Minnesota’s crossbar. Grayson threw himself into a board-sidebattle, sweat streaking his face, shouting to cover the open lane I should’ve filled.
I ignored the swelling pain and tried to recalibrate, but the scoreboard reflected my failures.
Third period, and The Surge needed a spark. Something to make the momentum swing in our favor. And with only five minutes to go, Mason gave it to us. Minnesota’s clinical assault slipped, one bad pass, one tiny hesitation in their defense, and Mason was in. He snapped the puck into the top corner. Clean and simple enough to make me wonder why it hadn’t happened sooner.
Just like that, the ice felt alive again. The bench erupted, and we were shouting at each other, fists pumping, voices cutting through the rink. The crowd ate it up, their chanting growing louder, egging us on.
Grayson took the next chance like a storm. One touch, one surge into the slot, and he fired—goal. The arena exploded, a deafening tidal wave of sound and motion as they shoved and grabbed each other, jumping up and down. We were back in it. I skated past the crease, lunging at a loose puck, and though my shoulder ached with every twist, I still felt it… the thrill, the adrenaline, the fight that didn’t care about pain. We were here for the win and nothing else.
Clock bleeding down. Tension carved into every second. We got a faceoff in the attacking zone. Coach’s voice bellowed out over the ice, and Landon vaulted over the boards. Supersub. Whistle blew. Landon stole the puck like a rabid Jack Russell and went straight for the finish. Two on one, defenders closing. He faked left, shedding the first like he was nothing, then, just like he’d done in training, scooped the puck in a high arc over the last defender’s head. He twisted round to snatch it from the air with his blade, balancing the puck at waist height as he skatedbehind the net. He rounded and, with the whole Minnesota team closing in, neatly flicked the puck off his blade into the net. Top shelf.
Silence, then pandemonium. Fans climbing, shouting, shoving, spilling into themselves. Our team skating toward each other, sticks in the air. I barely even heard the horn. It was just bodies, motion, heat, triumph. We’d nabbed the top spot.
And as they lost themselves in celebration, I hung back, lost in the realization that no matter what, I couldn’t bow out now. Our path to finals was practically set in stone, and come hell or high water, I would be with the guys when we lifted that cup.
The locker room was more raucous once the guys had shed their gear and the beers were cracked. Even Coach allowed himself a time-out to enjoy the moment.
“Big pressure moments are always 50–50,” he said, putting his arm around my shoulder. I could’ve sworn he was only two beers in, but his speech was already dicey, his cheeks glowing red. “Don’t beat yourself up. The boys had your back. We put it behind us, and aim to do better the next game.”
“Yes, Coach.” I pressed through the bolt of lightning burning through my shoulder right where his hand weighed on it.
“One game at a time, Bouchard. You’ve got this.” He left me with a reassuring pat on the back and walked over to sing Landon’s praises.
Most of the guys were shirtless already, but I couldn’t peel off my shit in front of them without raising alarm bells. Besides, my hack tape job kept shooting loose as I moved around out there, I was too embarrassed to face the aftermath just yet.
“Good game.” Reese tossed a cold beer at me, and I caught it by reflex with my left hand.
“Not me, but thank God for our forwards.” I cracked the can and bumped it against hers.
She took a sip, then smiled at me. “And thank God for narrow wins, am I right?”
Her hand shot up to high-five me, but between the beer and my dud shoulder, I couldn’t do anything but stare it at. And then at her.
“You lied to me,” she said, and although she still smiled, there was nothing friendly about her words.
6
Reese
I’d been angry-organizing my kit bag when a light rap got my attention.
“You summoned me?” Theo’s casual grin worked overtime, but I wasn’t buying it.
“Shut the door.”
That seemed to do it. His smile faded pretty fast. Theo stepped into the medical bay and closed the door behind him. He wasn’t as hungover as I thought he’d be, considering the state of the locker room last night. In fact, he looked kinda put together, in a pair of blue jeans and a clean button-down, rolled to the elbows. I caught myself staring and forced my gaze back to the kit bag.
“I gotta meet Hunter at the mall in half an hour, so if you don’t mind…”
“The mall? What are you, twelve?” I motioned for him to sit, but he ignored the chair at my desk and sat on the edge of the exam table instead.
He slid his hands into his pockets, careful, I noticed, not to engage that right shoulder. “We’re catching a movie, if you must know. It’s our day off, in case you missed that part.”
“I didn’t miss it.”
