We huddle up. Beck leads us in some ridiculous chant that Thorne started last season. Something about blood and ice and brotherhood. It's corny as hell but it works. By the time we break, we're ready to run through walls.
The tunnel smells like rubber and sweat and possibility. The crowd roar builds as we approach the ice. When my name gets called, the sound is deafening.
"Anchoring the blue line for your Seattle Havoc, six-foot-eight of pure shutdown power. Give it up for number twelve, Silas 'Ice Man' Huxley!"
I skate out and scan the crowd. There. Section 108, row 5. Scout in my jersey, curls piled on top of her head, grinning like she's never been happier. Sable and Juliet are beside her, and the rest of the Coven too. My girl brought her whole squad to watch my team play.
Something in my chest goes tight and warm.
The puck drops.
Colorado comes out flying. Their first line is fast, skilled, and dangerous. Rzeznik's got hands like silk and a shot thatcould punch through steel. Normally, trying to shut him down for sixty minutes would make me nervous.
Tonight I feel locked in.
First shift, Rzeznik tries to blow past me on the outside. I angle him to the boards, pin him there with my body, and steal the puck clean. Hunter picks it up and we transition the other way. No goal, but we controlled the play.
Second shift, I break up a passing play in the neutral zone. Simple stick lift, nothing fancy. Beck gets the puck and carries it deep. Still no goal, but we're dictating pace.
Third shift, Rzeznik finally gets a step on me. He's flying down the wing, Beck chasing after him but too far from the crease, my goalie Jett exposed. I dig deep and somehow catch Rzeznik at the hash marks. Poke check, perfectly timed, and the puck squirts past the goal, missing the net.
That was close.
Coach Cross nods at me when I hit the bench. That's high praise from him.
The game settles into a rhythm. Colorado's good, really good, but we're better tonight. Thorne scores first, a ridiculous tip that Jett would've had no chance on if it came from the other team. Hunter gets the second, crashing the net and jamming home a rebound. Beck adds a third period goal that makes the building shake.
And me? I play the best defensive game of my career.
Every gap sealed. Every passing lane covered. Each time Rzeznik thinks he's got space, I'm there. I’m not playing dirty, not aggressive. But I have smart positioning and an active stick.
With five minutes left, Colorado pulls their goalie. It’s not the unusual this late in the game if they know they’re not going to win. Instead, they put in another enforcer. Six attackers against our five.
This is how games get lost, where one mistake costs you everything.
Coach Cross looks down the bench. "Silas. You're out there until the horn."
I nod and hop the boards.
The next four minutes are pure melee. Colorado throws everything at us. Shots from everywhere. Scrambles in the crease. Jett makes two incredible saves that have the crowd on their feet.
Then Rzeznik gets the puck at the point. He winds up for a one-timer, the kind of shot that beats goalie more often than not. I read it coming and step into the lane. The puck hits my shin pad, deflects wide, and I'm already moving. I scoop it up, spot Thorne breaking free, and hit him with a perfect pass.
Thorne goes in alone on the empty net. He scores and the building erupts.
We win 4-1.
The celebration on the ice is controlled insanity. Gloves fly, helmets come off, everyone's screaming and piling on Jett. I hang back, not big on the group hug thing, but Hunter finds me anyway and nearly tackles me into the boards.
"Defense Daddy!" he yells. "That's my fucking brother!"
Jett skates over, grinning ear to ear. "Dude. You were unreal. Rzeznik had like two inches of ice all night."
I can’t repress a smile. "I was just doing my job."
"Bullshit." Beck joins us. "That was a shutdown clinic. You should teach a master class."
The reporters swarm after we get off the ice. Microphones and cameras and questions coming from every direction.
