Utah tried to push back harder than I’d expected. A winger barreled into the boards, and I met him with a shoulder check, grunting through the impact. My stick smacked against his as I tried to steer the puck away, and I barely managed to stay upright.
Hunter’s voice cut across the crease. “First time, big guy?”
I twisted to block a cross-ice pass, and got rid of my winger once and for all. My arm screamed, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t gonna stop moving unless the damn thing fell off, like Reese said.
Second period kicked off like a shot to the gut. Utah wasn’t just going to lie down, even if we’d outclassed them so far. Mason and Grayson were already barking at each other, circling, pointing, jabbing sticks at passing lanes. I stayed tight on the blue line, eyes scanning, arm buzzing under the tape.
“Got any room?” Tucker handed off a Utah winger and went zooming after the two forwards making a line for Hunter.
I back-slammed the winger into the boards and watched him sink to the ice. By the time I turned back to help Tucker, he’d cleared the zone. The puck was already gliding back toward the Utah goal. Shawn lost a turnover, but fought back to turn it over again. Back up the ice.
Mason snatched the loose puck and ripped it toward the net. Utah’s goalie lunged, blocked it with a glove, but the rebound ricocheted into Mason’s stick again. He snapped it past the goalie with a low, precise flick. Goal. Bench erupted, teammates hollered, and I grinned even if my shoulder didn’t.
Before our poor opposition could catch a breath—which, I think was exactly Coach’s plan—Landon barreled onto the ice. Fresh legs and all the energy of a stick of dynamite. We weren’t home, but the Surge fans who’d followed us there lost their fucking minds. The kid zipped down the left wing, weaving between defenders like he was stocked with his own personal repelling shield. One guy dived to poke the puck away, but Landon spun into him, full-body contact, and slid the puck smoothly between his legs as he curled out of the motion.
The goalie squatted, glove flailing. Landon shot a quick fake to the forehand, dragged the puck around the goal post, and backhanded it into the top corner. Net rattled. The crowd went wild.
Landon launched himself across the ice, flat on his stomach, laughing as he lapped up the excitement. Our bench went ballistic.
“Feel like I’ll be out of a job soon,” Mason said as he skated past.
“Kid’s got moves,” I replied, limping slightly as I shifted back into position. “Moves and zero respect for personal space.”
On the next shift, it was Tucker who lost out fast. Dispossessed on the blue line. “A little help!”
My arm was fucked, but I lunged with my stick out and forced Utah’s forward wide. Just the right angle to spit the puck out, and Tucker was there to clear it out for the end of the period.
By the third, Utah was pressing harder. I could feel the wear in my arm, a not-so-gentle stab telling me to slow down. As if that were an option. I threw myself into play after play, my body smacking the boards more than once. One winger barreled in on Hunter, and I launched myself at the puck in a last-second block, full-body dive, shoulder slamming into the ice. The impact echoed despite the noise in the arena. Or maybe it was all in my head, because it felt like my arm had shattered, taking my breath with it.
I rolled to my knees, snatched the puck, and skated it out of the crease, ignoring the dangerous throbbing that had started up in the joint. Just a few more minutes to go.
Grayson skated past and clapped my back. “That’s the stuff, Bouchard. Keep it up.”
I barely nodded, breathing through the adrenaline cutting through my pain. That small show of approval was enough to keep me going, and I added it to the stack of reasons why I had to stay on the ice.
The last minutes ticked away, Utah was out of steam, tired legs faltering, and on we pressed. Mason threaded a pass across the crease to Grayson, who slid it past a sprawling defender, top corner. Another goal for Surge, comfort on the scoreboard, but we didn’t stop. Landon darted after another loose puck, high stick, quick flick, and forced a scramble in front of the goalie. Shot missed, but the movement alone made the goaliecommit, and Mason picked up the rebound, flipping it in without hesitation.
The arena’s initial excitement had fizzled out to a sea of pained mumbling, and whenever we scored, Surge fans erupted as if they were being paid to do it. The sound burrowed under my skin and settled deep enough to make the pain worth it.
When the final horn blared, this time the celebration broke out on the ice. The Surge had swept the round. Landon spun across the ice and skidded to a stop on his knees, throwing his stick into the air. He may have been a rookie at the game, but when it came to playing the crowd, the kid was a pro.
“Bouchard.” Coach took up center stage in the locker room, and called me out when the team finally filed in. Everyone stopped everything, and I felt several sets of eyes moving between him and me.
I steeled myself. This was it. He’d seen me fighting for my life out there, and he wasn’t gonna let it slide.
“You left it all out there tonight,” he said with a kind of contained acknowledgement that I wasn’t sure what to do with. His face and posture didn’t crack, but pride bled through his words. “That’s the kind of play that’ll take us to finals.”
I was too stunned to say anything, and just nodded. Around me, the team continued riding the high of crushing Round 1. They joked around and shoved each other, acting as though we’d taken the cup itself. I hung around while they stripped down and drifted off to the showers, long enough so it wouldn’t look weird if I slipped out for a couple of minutes.
Making my way to the med bay, the pain I felt was only secondary. Adrenaline, pride, and stubbornness ruled. The game and Coach’s approval was all the proof I needed that I was doing the right thing.
Reese said nothing as I walked in, just gestured for me to sit down on the exam table. The faint smell of antiseptic and tension from earlier hung in the air. It was one of those impossible situations, where each of us thought the other was wrong and we were right. Except, in my case, I actually was right. Tonight was evidence to the fact.
“Wasn’t sure you’d get up after you ate ice in the third,” she murmured, carefully working me out of my gear. I appreciated the help, but wasn’t in the mood to say it out loud.
“Mild compared to some of the hits I’ve taken in my life.”
“Not so mild considering the freakshow you’re hiding under your shoulder pads.” She went to work on the tape in that unsympathetic way of hers I’d gotten used to.
