The Columbus defenseman’s red jersey is stark against the arena’s cold blue lighting. He shifts his weight, signaling his nextmove. I’ve been studying him all night—he always leans right before committing left. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
I push forward, blades cutting into the ice with a satisfying crunch as I pick up the pace.
Ten seconds.
Cam has the puck now, evading a check, his focus absolute as he searches for an opening. I maneuver into position, finding the gap in coverage that most players would miss.
“Here!” I shout, tapping my stick against the ice twice.
Cam’s head snaps up, and in one fluid motion, he sends the puck my way. It’s slightly off, but I stretch, the edge of my blade catching it just before it slides out of reach. The defenseman realizes his mistake too late, lunging toward me as I pivot away.
Five seconds.
The goal is right there. The keeper’s eyes lock with mine. His body tenses as he tries to anticipate my shot. I fake high and he commits, lifting his glove. At the last possible second, I flick my wrists, sending the puck low to his right.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The crowd erupts.
Game. Over.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
I’m immediately crushed under a pile of my teammates. Hands slap my helmet, voices shout in my ears. I can’t stop smiling. The rush of adrenaline from a game-winning goal never gets old.
“Amazing, Dylan. Absolutely amazing!” Kade’s voice rises above the others as he pulls me into a headlock.
The crowd is on their feet, a sea of blue-and-white Glaciers jerseys. I raise my stick in the air, and they roar even louder.
This feeling right here is better than any drug.
“Nice work, Williamston,” Coach Wilson calls out as we file off the ice. “Great read on that defenseman.”
I nod, too winded for words.
The locker room buzzes with post-game energy. The guys peel off their sweat-soaked gear as they excitedly relive key plays.
“That’s three in a row,” Paul, the rookie, calls out to me. “We’re on fire!”
“Don’t jinx it,” I warn, but I can’t help but smile. We’re on a good run. The playoffs are months away, but we’re playing like a team that knows where it’s headed.
I strip off my jersey, wincing as I lift my arms. I took a pretty hard hit in the second period that’ll definitely leave a mark. I rotate my shoulder, testing it. Luckily it’s not serious, just another battle scar to add to my collection.
By the time I’ve showered and changed, most of the guys are dressed and heading out. A few reporters have made their way in, cornering Cam for quotes. I slip past them, not in the mood for post-game analysis.
Tonight feels like a celebration.
We’ve had three straight wins. It’s the perfect excuse to hit a bar with the guys and let the rush of victory carry us for a few more hours before reality sets back in.
I spot Kade by his locker, putting his gear in his bag. “Hey, Santos. I’m hitting The Penalty Box tonight to celebrate. You in?”
He looks up with an apologetic smile. “Can’t tonight, man. I promised Colton I’d help him with his science project. He’s building a volcano, and it’s due tomorrow.”
“Can’t Ella handle it?”
“She’s grading papers.” Kade shrugs as if it’s the most normal thing in the world to turn down a night out with your best friend to help your fiancée’s eleven-year-old son with his homework. “Besides, I promised Colton. You know how it is.”
Except Idon’tknow how it is. That’s the thing.
“No worries,” I say, already backing away. “Catch you next time.”
