The puck drops, and the world narrows.
First period is a war. Back and forth, neither team giving an inch. Their center is quick—too quick—and he blows past our defense twice before I can adjust. We trade chances, trade hits, trade everything but goals. The ice gets chewed up. Bodies get bruised.
I take a hard check into the boards that rattles my teeth. Get up. Take the puck. Push forward. That's the game—get hit, get up, keep moving.
Zero-zero going into the first intermission.
Coach's speech in the locker room is short. "You're playing their game. Start playing yours."
Second period, we find our rhythm. Jax scores first—a beautiful wrist shot that beats their goalie glove-side. The arena erupts. We're up one-nothing, and for exactly forty-three seconds, this feels easy.
Then Fairbanks scores. Then they score again.
We're down 2-1 with twelve minutes left in the second when their enforcer catches me with an elbow I don't see coming. Thehit sends me spinning, skates going out from under me, and I go down hard enough that my helmet bounces off the ice.
The arena goes silent.
Flat on my back, staring up at the metal rafters and the fluorescent lights, everything goes fuzzy around the edges. My shoulder screams. My ribs protest. The ref's whistle sounds distant, like it's coming from underwater.
For just a second, lying there on the ice, I think about Dad.
The roof collapse. The thirty seconds he had to decide—go back in for the family or get himself out. The choice he made that cost him everything.
But also gave them everything.
Getting up is what Lockwoods do. We get knocked down, and we get back up. Not because we're tough or stubborn or too dumb to stay down. Because people are counting on us. Because the job isn't finished. Because someone has to.
I take a breath—ribs aching—and push myself to my knees. Then my skates. The arena noise comes rushing back like a wave, people on their feet, Sage screaming my name, Piper with both hands pressed to her mouth.
The ref skates over. "You good, Lockwood?"
"Yeah." My shoulder's going to hurt like hell tomorrow, but nothing's broken. "I'm good."
Five-minute major penalty for Fairbanks. We get a power play.
I should go to the bench, let the trainers check me out, sit for a shift and recover. That would be the smart play.
Instead, I take the next faceoff.
We don't score on the power play, but we own the momentum now. The crowd won't shut up, the energy building with every shift. We tie it 2-2 with four minutes left in the second. Going into the third period all even, all to play for.
Third period is pure chaos. Both teams throwing everything at each other, the game getting chippy, refs losing control of the tempers. Jax gets a roughing penalty. Their center scores on the power play. We're down 3-2 with eight minutes left.
Then Tommy makes a save that defies physics—a point-blank one-timer that he somehow gets a pad on, the puck bouncing wide. The crowd roars. Our defenseman clears it up the boards. I'm already moving, reading the play three steps ahead.
I get the puck at center ice with six minutes left. Two defenders between me and the goal. Their center chasing from behind.
Time slows down the way it does sometimes. Everything crystallizes—the angle, the space, the opening that exists for maybe two seconds before it closes. Dad used to say firefighting was about reading the building, understanding what it would do before it did it. Hockey's the same. Read the ice. Trust your instincts.
I cut left, split the defenders, and the goal opens up.
One shot. That's all I've got before their goalie closes the angle and the defenseman catches up.
The puck leaves my stick clean. Top shelf, blocker side, exactly where I aimed.
It hits the back of the net with that perfect sound—mesh and rubber and every dream I've ever had.
Goal.
