“Fuck,” I said, already turning.
He snapped it low. Hunter kicked it out with his pad. Rebound bounced straight back into the slot. Their center buried it before I could close.
2–1.
The building surged in response, noise crashing down on us from every direction. I stood there a fraction too long, staring at the red light, then forced myself to move. The bench door opened. Coach pointed at me, then at the ice.
“Next shift,” he said. No anger. Just belief.
Tucker skated by and smacked my shin pad. “Shake it off. We’re good.”
I nodded once. That mistake sat heavy, but it didn’t get to stay. There was too much game left.
Play turned ugly after that. Scrums at every whistle. Sticks tangled. Gloves in ribs when the refs weren’t looking. I took a hit along the wall that sent a jolt straight through my arm and down my side. My teeth clicked together. I stayed upright.
Midway through the period, I got tangled with their captain in front of the crease. He leaned his weight into my shoulder, smiling under his visor like he could feel the weak spot. I shoved back with my hips instead, used my legs, and tied up his stick until Hunter covered.
“Nice,” Hunter said, breathless.
We killed a minor of our own. Then another. Clock kept bleeding. Oilers pressed harder, sensing blood.
Late in the third, with just under four minutes left, Grayson clipped a guy trying to clear the zone. Ref’s arm went up.
Power play, Oilers.
Bench went quiet. Coach gathered us in tight.
“Clear lanes,” he said. “Bodies in front. Trust each other.”
I took my spot near the crease, shoulder screaming, stick low. The puck moved fast. East to west. One touch passes meant to pull us apart. I dropped to a knee to block a seam, got my stick on it, and sent it bouncing to the corner.
Crowd roared approval. Oilers kept it in.
Shot from the point. Tip in front. Hunter kicked it out. Another shot came immediately. This one threaded through traffic and caught net.
2–2.
Everything stopped for a beat. Then the place erupted again, split clean down the middle between hope and panic.
I skated to the bench, lungs burning, arm useless at my side. Reese was there, eyes locked on me, hands clenched around the towel she’d been folding and refolding all night.
“Look at me,” she said.
I did.
“You’re still here,” she said. “You’re doing great. We need you in this just a little longer, okay? Just a little longer.”
I nodded. “I’ve got it.”
She searched my face, then reached up and squeezed my good arm.
“That’s all,” she said. “Go.”
The final minutes crawled and flew at the same time. Chances both ways. Mason rang iron on a break. Hunter robbed their winger with a glove save that brought everyone to their feet. My shoulder went numb, then came back screaming again. I welcomed it. Pain meant I was still in this.
The horn sounded with the score tied.
Overtime.
