The bench erupted. I was the first over the boards on the next shift, pounding my stick on the ice, yelling myself hoarse.
“Again!” Tucker barked. “Stay on it.”
We did. Forecheck got meaner. Passes got crisper. Oilers started to chase instead of dictate. I pinched at the line and kept a clearing attempt in, sliding it down the wall to Shawn. He fed it low. Scramble at the crease. Sticks everywhere. The puck squirted loose.
I lunged for it on instinct.
The shot came from the point before I could brace. It hit me square in the shoulder.
Everything went white.
I remember the sound of it more than the pain. A hollow thud, like someone hitting a door with a fist. My legs folded. I went down hard, sliding on my side, gasping. The whistle blew late.
Hands were on me immediately. Tucker. Grayson. A few others.
“Stay with us,” Tucker said, his voice right in my ear.
I nodded because that seemed easier than talking. The pain rolled in after, deep and nauseating. I fought it, focused on the pattern of my breathing, the scrape of ice under my gloves as they pulled me up.
I made it to the bench under my own power. Reese was there, eyes sharp now, all softness gone.
“Helmet off,” she said. She checked my pupils, fingers steady against my jaw. “Talk to me.”
“I blocked it,” I said. “Still here.”
She held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary. Then she nodded. “You’re done blocking shots.”
I huffed a laugh that hurt all over. And yet, I’d never felt more alive. “Tell that to them.”
She didn’t smile. She pressed her forehead briefly to my helmet, just long enough that I felt it. Just long enough that the noise fell away.
“Finish it,” she said. “Then we deal.”
That did something to me. It settled the noise in my head and put everything back in its lane.
Next shift, we scored again.
Hunter kicked a rebound out to Mason, who fired it up ice to Landon streaking through center. Landon gained the zone, drew both defenders, and dropped it back to Shawn. Shawn wired it high. Two nothing.
I slammed my stick against the boards, shoulder screaming, grin breaking free anyway.
Oilers pushed back, desperate now. Late in the period, they worked it high to low, looking for a tip. I boxed out their bigcenter, took a cross-check for my trouble, and still got my stick under his. The puck deflected wide. Hunter covered it.
As the horn sounded for the second intermission, I sagged against the glass, sweat dripping off my nose, arm on fire.
Reese was there again, towel over my shoulders, hand warm at the back of my neck.
“You’re still moving,” she said. “That matters.”
I nodded, leaning into that touch more than I meant to.
We skated off in the lead, and for the first time all night, it felt like the ice might tilt our way.
The third opened with Oilers teeth bared and no patience left.
They came straight at us off the faceoff, dumping pucks behind our net and finishing every check. My shoulder throbbed with each stride, the joint heavy and uncooperative. I told it to hold. Told it again.
The puck rimmed around the boards on my side. I went to corral it, misjudged the bounce, and the pain bit hard enough that my hands lagged a beat. The puck skipped my blade and slid right to an Oilers winger waiting like he’d ordered it.
