Through the tangle and the roar, I found Kieran. Eye contact. Half a second. Through visors smudged with sweat.
There you are.
Shin pad tap. Helmet tap.
The second point came mid-second period. Clean zone entry. Kieran through neutral with the puck on his forehand, drawing their forward into a commit a half-step too early. The lane opened. He hit me in stride at the blue line.
I drove up the middle.
Their defenseman stepped up. I took the contact through my left shoulder and kept my feet. One more stride, long enough to slide it across the slot to Cross, already loading.
Bar down. Far side.
Varga stood on the bench and slammed his stick against the dasher.
"PLAYOFF DONNELLY IS A DIFFERENT SPECIES! I HAVE DOCUMENTARY EVIDENCE!"
"You have nothing," Rook said.
"I HAVE A FEELINGS-BASED HYPOTHESIS AND IT IS BEING VINDICATED IN REAL TIME!"
I sat. Grabbed water. My ribs were sore from the contact.
Three spots down, Kieran pulled his helmet off. Hair plastered to his forehead as he watched the replay on the overhead.
I looked away before anyone else could read my attention.
The third point came late. My assist. His finish.
I cycled low behind the net. Their coverage over-committed, both defenders rotating toward the corner. The lane through the slot opened for maybe a second.
I sent it without looking. Not a guess. Not a hope. I knew where he was the way I knew where he was in the dark.
One-timer. Clean release. The net bulged before the goalie finished his push.
The crowd noise shook the arena's foundation. I felt it through my skates and up into my chest.
Standard celebration on the ice. Brief shoulder bump.
On the bench, Rook nodded at the ice. Approving the play rather than the player. Pratt tapped both posts from the crease, faster than usual, locking his superstition in.
Three points. Game 1.
We weren't playing carefully. We were playing with honest passion.
I walked through the tunnel with my stick across my shoulders. My ribs ached with each step. Kieran was behind me and to the right.
He reached out to place his hand on the curve where my shoulder met my neck and stayed for a full stride. Warmth delivered through the fabric.
My pulse raced. My body didn't care that we were in a tunnel with twenty other people. It wanted to turn into that hand and press my shoulder blade back against his chest.
I kept walking.
His hand dropped.
Fifteen feet ahead, Rook's stride shortened by a half-step. He didn't turn his head.
A reporter appeared from a side corridor. Credential lanyard bouncing. Recorder already out.
