I didn’t answer, just watched him curiously. Landon executed a perfect backcheck, no theatrics, just precision. So weird.
The drill ended with a scramble. Pucks bouncing off boards, bodies colliding, sticks swinging in arcs. I dove for a loose puck, legs moving like they used to, right arm in the thick of things. Reese’s eyes were still on me, and when I skated past again, our eyes met briefly, fast and charged. I felt a pulse, a tether that set fire to my insides.
By the final rotation, I had landed a perfect block, passed the rebound to Hunter, who flicked it to Tucker, and the counter broke cleanly.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” Coach was so happy he clapped his hands like a giddy kid. “That’s what I want to see out there. Now bring it in, and save the rest for the game tomorrow.”
Landon came up behind me, blade scraping ice. “Theo,” he said so only I would hear it. “I just wanted to say sorry about the other night. And… I’ll stop being an ass, if you stop being an ass.”
It took me a second to consider whether this was an apology or not, but then I smiled, shaking my head. “Fair enough, Cross. I guess I haven’t exactly rolled out the welcome wagon for you.”
We shook hands, and I felt the shift happen right there on the ice. He may have been a rookie, but he was my teammate first. And we were going to finals together.
*
The first clang of sticks rang across the rink, and I was already sliding into position, ready to block the lane before a shot could materialize. Frost Bank was packed, every seat buzzing, every eye locked on the ice. First shift, first taste of real play in weeks, and I was fucking wired.
Oilers came out the only way they knew how—swinging. Right away, they were all over Mason, dumping him into the boards the second he touched the puck.
I skated up fast, shoulder low, stick in the lane. “Back off!”
All it took was a stealthy clip to their defender as Mason shot for the corner, and the guy slid across the ice, his curses muffled in the roar of the crowd. Mason grinned at me, and slapped my glove.
“Thanks, man.”
“Think they found out you’re not signing with them?”
He laughed. “Tough shit.”
The game moved on.
Hunter was in the net, and Tucker flanked the weak side, ready to poke, ready to hammer. We were a wall in the slot. One Oilers forward tried to curl past me, spinning off the boards, but I caught his blade with mine and leaned in, hard. He stumbled, and hit the ice with a humiliating yelp.
Mason picked up the loose puck, ducked a swipe, and skated the wing. Grayson trailed him, stick poised for a one-touch feed. Mason sent it across in a snap pass, and he flicked it midair over a sprawled defender, wrist shot screaming past the goalie’s glove into the top corner. The jolt of adrenaline knocked the wind out of me. Surge 1, Oilers 0.
No time to breathe. Oilers came back, hammering into our zone with a two-man rush. I cut the slot like a blade, body low, stick dragging the ice. The winger faked left, spun right. I leaned, angled my shoulder into him, and checked him clean against the boards. The puck popped loose. Tucker slid in with perfect timing and even more perfect stick, and nudged it up ice. I glanced at Mason. He was grimacing but smiling, blood at thecorner of his lip. Those motherfuckers were testing him harder than anyone else.
Midway through the first, a scuffle broke out near the crease. Mason got shoved into the boards, and I was first to react, leading the pack as our guys descended on the fight. My stick collided with someone’s chest.
“Not today,” I snapped, edging him back.
He pushed me, I pushed back harder, and fists followed. A quick reminder of boundaries. Their guy went down first, hands up in surrender. I backed off and skated away.
Oilers regrouped, furious. They dumped the puck deep, trying to catch us off guard. I shadowed the slot as one of the forwards barreled toward Hunter. I slid, hit him shoulder-to-shoulder, and twisted the momentum so he skidded past the crease, off-balance. Hunter grabbed the rebound, flicked it to Tucker, who threaded a pass up to Grayson.
He darted along the right wing, deking left, right, left, defenders spitting ice behind him. He snapped a shot at the far post. The goalie reached, but the puck kissed the post and bounced into the net. Surge 2, Oilers 0. Grayson pumped a fist, and I skated over, slapping his shoulder.
“Now who’s showing off?”
He smacked my helmet a few times. “I was feeling left out. Had to make a play for it.”
But the Oilers weren’t done. They came at us like a storm, hits were harder, faster. I absorbed one into the boards, shoulder jarred. The whole place held its breath, but I didn’t even flinch. I came back twice as hard, met a winger in the slot, and dropped him into the ice with a perfect check. The crowd roared, and I felt that electric thrill of everything hanging in the balance. Where something as small as the tilt of your stick could decide things.
Late in the second, the Oilers sneaked one past us. A sharp feed from the point, slap shot curling around Tucker’s poke check. Hunter lunged, barely got a stick to it, but the puck squirmed past his pad. Oilers 1, Surge 2.
I skated back, teeth clenched, scanning every line. “Keep it tight,” I barked to Hunter. “Watch their rotation. They’re hungry for it.”
Hunter nodded, shifting, body low, eyes sharp. Tucker came up beside us. “You in a mood today or what?”
