Our bench came alive. Sticks banged. Yells layered over each other.
Edmonton answered with muscle. Their winger stepped into me at the blue and sent me down hard. I slid on my side and tasted copper. Reese’s eyes stayed on me until I got up.
I stayed up.
Five minutes left. Another missed call when Grayson got cross-checked in front. He spun around and barked at the ref, hands out. The ref skated past him and pointed to center.
“Bullshit,” Grayson said, clear as day.
We kept pushing, and it wasn’t pretty. Pucks to the net. Bodies to the crease. I pinched hard on a rim and kept it in by inches,took a hit for it, and sent it down low anyway. Landon dug it out and fed it back to the point. I stepped into space and fired low. The rebound spilled. Grayson crashed and jammed.
Goal.
The place detonated. I don’t remember the sound so much as the pressure of it. Grayson slammed into the glass, mouth wide, eyes wild. Landon jumped him. Reese threw her head back and laughed, one hand already reaching for water bottles like this was work and play all at once.
2–2.
Overtime came with nothing but nerves.
They called a hook on Tucker that never touched hands. They waved off an icing for us when our guy was clearly gassed. The crowd turned hostile. Beer rained down from somewhere above.
Fights flared and got stamped out. Every whistle felt late. Every hit carried extra. I chased a loose puck into the corner and got drilled from behind, numbers full, head snapping forward. I got up and went straight at the guy. Gloves half off before the linesmen wedged between us.
“Enough,” one of them said, pushing me back.
Enough didn’t exist.
We traded chances. Hunter stood on his head. Their goalie answered. Time stretched and legs burned. My shoulder started to whisper, then complain. I ignored it and took another shift.
I jumped into the rush on a broken play and took a pass I shouldn’t have. Leaned into the shot when I knew better.
Something cracked. Or ripped. Or broke.
Pain exploded, white and blinding, blazing through my arm and down my side. My stick clattered away. I dropped to a kneeand stayed there, breath punched out of me, shoulder screaming in a way no nerve blocker could touch.
Hands grabbed at me. Voices became muffled. Reese vaulted the boards and was there, face gone pale.
“No,” I said. “No, don’t.”
They got me up between them, weight sagging, skates barely finding ice. As they carried me into the tunnel, the horn sounded.
Long. Final.
Edmonton’s bench spilled over. Red lights flared. The building went dead quiet behind me.
I didn’t need to ask to know who’d scored the winning goal.
The series was level. And I was done.
27
Reese
Theo was on the exam table, bare chest slick with sweat, skin gone gray around the mouth. One arm pinned to his side because that was the only way he could exist without screaming. The other hand clawed at the edge of the vinyl as if it might give him leverage over his own body.
“Don’t touch it,” he said through his teeth when I reached for him.
I stopped. Not because he was right, but because McAvoy’s voice cracked the room in two.
