Nicole was already in her seat. Third row, center ice. I found her without trying, like my eyes were hardwired for it now. She had her Surge hoodie on, sleeves pushed up, fingers laced together like she was holding the team together through sheer will. When she caught me looking, she smiled—small, nervous, proud.
That smile grounded me.
The puck dropped and the game immediately turned into a grind.
No flow. No freebies. Every inch of ice had to be earned with blood and lungs and bruises that would bloom purple by morning. The Oilers came out desperate, fast through the neutral zone, forcing dump-ins and collapsing hard in their own end. The Surge answered in kind, finishing every check, sticks in lanes, bodies in shooting lanes.
By the end of the first period, it was scoreless and ugly and perfect playoff hockey.
“Bench is tight,” Coach muttered beside me as the guys came off. “They’re squeezing.”
“They’re overloading the strong side,” I said without looking away from the ice. “Leaving the weak-side D high. If we can swing low and reverse quick, we get clean entries.”
Coach nodded once. “I see it.”
Second period. Same story, only louder.
The Oilers struck first off a broken play, a rebound that squirted loose in the crease and got jammed home before anyone could clear it. Their bench exploded. Our building went dead quiet in that awful way where thirty thousand people inhaled at the same time.
I felt it like a punch.
Nicole stood, hands on the glass, shouting something I couldn’t hear. She didn’t look scared. She looked furious.
Good.
The Surge pushed back, but nothing came easy. Shots died in shin pads. Passes hopped sticks. Their goalie tracked pucks likehe was seeing them half a second before they were released. End of two, still 1–0 Oilers, and the air felt thin.
I leaned forward on the bench, elbows on my knees, heart pounding like I was about to take a draw.
“You okay?” Coach asked quietly.
“I hate this,” I said. “But I’m ready.”
That got the corner of his mouth to twitch.
Early third, the Surge tied it on a greasy net-front scramble. Mason took a beating in the slot and still managed to shovel the puck across the line with his backhand while flat on his stomach. The building erupted. Helmets flew. The bench lost its collective mind.
I caught Nicole jumping up and down, screaming, tears in her eyes. When she saw me watching, she pressed her fist to her heart and held it there.
I did the same without thinking.
Tie game. Everything to play for.
Then came the call.
Oilers defenseman hooked Grayson just enough to take his hands away as he cut to the net. The ref’s arm went up. The roar that followed felt like it shook the rafters.
Power play.
Coach slammed the door shut and waved the unit in tight. He looked at me instead of the whiteboard.
“Talk,” he said.
Every face turned toward me. Sweat-soaked. Breathing hard. Eyes burning.
This was it.
“They cheat the seam,” I said, voice steady even though my pulse was screaming. “Their weak-side winger collapses early. They think the cross-ice pass is coming, every time.”
