Grayson didn’t hesitate. He snapped it low through a screen. The puck kissed the inside of the post and crossed.
Horn.
2–1.
The arena exploded with cheers. Landon screamed, and crashed his chest into Grayson’s. I stood at the blue line, heaving for air, and let the sound of celebration wash over me.
There was still a period to go, but that one goal felt like we’d already won the cup.
I skated to the bench and finally let myself look. Reese wasn’t there. The space stayed empty.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
The lie stuck in my throat anyway.
The third period opened with my lungs already burning.
We couldn’t buy a lane. Every entry died at their blue, sticks stacking like a wall that moved. Dump and chase turned into dump and lose. I threw one on from the boards that missed wide by a foot and came screaming back around to center, their defenseman already leaning into it.
They didn’t score from it, and that was the only mercy.
Hits landed with intent now. Not statements. Decisions. Tucker took one along the end boards that folded him awkwardly, his shoulder smashing glass hard enough to shake the stanchion. He popped back up and shoved the guy into the net for his trouble. The ref stared straight through it.
Next shift, Grayson got hauled down in the slot with a stick wrapped around his waist. No arm up. Our bench erupted.Coach leaned so far over the boards I thought he’d topple right over it.
“Open your eyes,” someone yelled.
Edmonton kept coming, using the blind ref to their advantage. They dumped it deep and sent two in hard every time, one to hit, one to hunt. I tied up their winger behind the net and felt a forearm ride up into my neck. We both went down and slid into the corner where three more bodies piled on. Skates tangled. Gloves shoved faces. The puck disappeared under shins and rage.
A whistle finally cut it. The ref pointed us to our feet and skated away without sending anyone anywhere.
Hunter banged his stick. “That’s a joke. How is he not calling anything?”
Well, the joke kept going.
Ten minutes left and our shot count for the period sat at zero. The crowd had gone from belief and hope to pleading. Every clearance earned applause like it was a goal. Every blocked shot felt like a win.
I blocked one off my thigh that lit my leg up bright and hot. Another off my shin guard that rattled my teeth. The blocker kept my shoulder quiet, but my arm felt like it belonged to someone else.
Another scrum broke out after their defenseman took a run at Landon along the wall. Landon popped up swinging. Gloves hit the ice. They traded two solid ones before the linesmen waded in and wrestled them apart.
Coincidentals. Of course.
On the kill that followed, the ref waved off a clear icing when their guy was a full stride behind our winger. The arena lost itsmind. Booing rolled down from the upper bowl and settled like heavy snow.
“Skate,” Coach yelled. “Just skate.”
I did. I skated until my vision tunneled.
Then I saw her. On a turn over the blue line.
Reese stood behind the bench, hair pulled back, jaw set, hands already busy with tape and spray like she’d been here the whole time. She caught my eye without trying. No smile. No wave. Just there.
Something in me snapped back into place.
Next shift, I took the puck behind our net and didn’t hesitate. One hard cut, shoulder into their forechecker, a slip pass up the wall to Tucker. I jumped past him and took it back in stride at center. We gained the zone clean. I drove wide and chipped it to the corner where Grayson arrived with speed and purpose. He threw it to the slot. It bounced. Landon chopped at it. Their goalie kicked it aside.
Shot one.
