Too late to think. I turned, lifted my stick one-handed, and got just enough of their center’s shot to change its angle. The puck slapped into Hunter’s blocker instead of his chest. He smothered it. Whistle. My arm sent a warning straight through my teeth.
I skated past the net, jaw locked, eyes forward. No bench glance. No looking for Reese. If I saw her watching me like that again, calculating damage, I’d lose my edge.
Next shift, Oilers pressed harder. They came in waves, short passes through traffic, bodies finishing every check. My lungs worked like bellows that had sprung a leak. I pinched at the blueline when Mason dumped it in, kept the puck alive long enough for Grayson to swoop in and throw it on net. Their goalie kicked out a pad. Rebound popped loose. Shawn crashed the crease, hacking at it, but it stayed out.
I backchecked on instinct more than speed, reached to disrupt a cross-ice feed, and felt the joint protest. White flashed behind my eyes. I still got enough wood on it. The pass fluttered. Hunter swallowed the follow-up.
“Nice stick,” he said as I coasted by.
I nodded once. That was all I had.
The crowd stayed loud, restless, the sound a constant pressure against my helmet. Game Seven had everyone wired tight. Every hit drew a reaction. Every whistle got an argument. The Oilers bench chirped nonstop, trying to bait us into something stupid. Tucker laughed in one guy’s face after a mindless shove and skated away.
Midway through the first, I jumped into the rush when Mason cut wide. He pulled two defenders with him. I slid into the high slot, stick ready. He feathered the pass back. I one-timed it without thinking. Pain ripped through my shoulder on contact, hot and blinding.
But the shot still got through. Their goalie flashed leather and snagged it.
I bent at the waist on the way to the corner, pretending to fix my skate. Breath came out in short bursts. I counted them. Four. Five. Enough.
Oilers rebounded with speed. I got caught flat-footed when a winger chipped it past me and tried to spin off my hip. He drove me into the boards. The impact sent a spike straight down my arm. My legs went watery, and I slid to a knee before I could stop it.
The ref’s hand stayed down. Play went on.
I shoved myself upright and limped to the bench on the fly, cursing under my breath. The gate opened. I fell onto the boards instead of sitting.
“You good?” Coach asked.
“Yep,” I said, because anything else would turn into a conversation I didn’t have time for.
He leaned in, eyes flicking to my shoulder, then back to my face. He said nothing. Just clapped my helmet once and sent the next line out.
The rest of the period blurred into grit and survival. I broke up a two-on-one with a desperate poke. I boxed out a net-front pest until the whistle. I took a clearing attempt off the shin and shoved it down ice anyway. When the horn finally sounded, the scoreboard stayed clean. 0–0.
I skated straight for the tunnel. Reese intercepted me halfway, hand already on my elbow.
“No,” I muttered.
She walked with me anyway, fingers light but unyielding. “Sit.”
I did as I was told. She peeled back the tape enough to check swelling, her mouth set in that flat line that meant she was deciding how mad to be later.
“You asked,” she said quietly. “I said no. This is still no.”
“I know.” My voice came out rough. “I’m not asking again.”
Her eyes lifted to mine. There was a lot packed in that look. Worry. Frustration. Something steadier underneath.
“Then we manage,” she said. She pressed a fresh cold pack against the joint and held it there. No rush in it. We both understood I’d be doing this the legal way—no blockers—and I was good with that.
All I wanted was to leave my heart on that ice tonight, and that’s what I was doing.
That carried me back onto the ice.
Second period started with Oilers trying to break us early. They dumped deep, chased hard, finished every hit. I took a bump behind our net that rattled my teeth. Got the puck out anyway. Hunter bailed me out twice in the opening minutes, sliding post to post, pads thudding, glove flashing.
Then we flipped the script.
Mason stole a puck at their blue line, shoulder down, legs churning. He drove wide, pulled the defense with him, and shoveled it to Grayson trailing late. Grayson didn’t hesitate. He snapped it far side. Net rippled.
