As the clock wound down, their coach pulled the goalie.
Markel sent me out. High-leverage defense.
I won the draw. Chipped it deep into their empty net.
Twenty seconds. Ten.
The horn sounded.
We won. Final 3-2.
The bench emptied chaotically, gloves off and helmets loosening.
The PA repeated the final score and named three stars.
Third: Cross.
Second: Me.
First: Heath.
The crowd roared at Heath's name.
First star. Opening night. And he looked terrified.
He skated out slowly, accepting congratulations with brief nods.
He tried to make himself smaller while the crowd chanted his number.
We lined up for handshakes. Their team filed past, exhausted but professional.
When it finished, we skated off. The crowd was still standing.
I glanced back once. Heath was last off the ice. Head down. Skating fast, trying to outrun the noise.
Back in the locker room, Varga held court near the showers.
"—Cross's goal violated physics. The puckcurved—"
Pratt walked past in full gear minus his mask. "Newton could explain it. Did you ever take a physics class?"
"Newton never tracked a puck through five bodies while someone's stick was in his armpit—"
"That's called screening. Not physics."
"Screening is applied physics—"
Rook's voice cut through from near the showers. "Varga, if you're gonna defend your education, maybe start by finishing one."
General laughter. Varga flipped him off cheerfully.
I pulled my jersey over my head. Hung it in my stall. I stripped methodically. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Shin guards stacked precisely.
Down the row, Heath sat at his stall. Already mostly undressed, he stared at his phone, scrolling without focus.
First star. Opening night.
Rook walked past, towel around his waist. Stopped at Heath's stall.
