"Just got lucky."
It wasn't luck. The puck had deflected at the exact right angle because Heath kept his blade flat in traffic. He'd absorbed a crosscheck without losing position.
The timeout ended.
I pulled my helmet on and hopped over.
Skating past the bench, I tapped my stick once against the boards.
Heath glanced up. We looked at each other, connecting for half a second.
The puck dropped.
I won a draw along the wall, chipped the puck deep, and finished a check that slowed their breakout. Nothing flashy. Doing what the game asked of me.
We carried the lead into the intermission.
Markel made minor adjustments. Standard recalibration.
I retaped my stick. Stretched while half-listening to Varga explain why Cross's earlier chance had violated physics.
The horn sounded, and we filed back out.
Six minutes into the second period, I scored.
Clean. No scramble.
Cross won the draw and pulled the puck back. I drifted toward the far post, reading the play half a second early. Their defenders collapsed high, and the passing lane opened.
Our defenseman threaded it through. I collected at the crease top, shifted the angle, and snapped it short side.
Bar down.
The crowd noise rattled the foundation.
I raised my stick. Cross tapped my helmet. Quick touches, back to business.
The announcer: "IRONHAWKS GOAL SCORED BY NUMBER SEVENTEEN, KIERAN MATHERS!"
Back at the bench, Heath stood and tapped my shin pad.
"Nice goal."
Sincere.
I felt it, and then I moved on.
Two goals now. One mine, one Heath's. Same position. Same night.
The story was writing itself.
Veteran legacy player versus hungry upstart. Only room for one.
The pattern repeated. I executed cleanly. Heath held his own in net-front chaos.
The crowd picked up on it.
Every time Heath touched the puck, they cheered.
