I skated down the boards, eyeing openings, scanning for any seam in their defense. Mason darted between two Hurricanes players, stick outstretched. I timed a pass through a narrow window between a defenseman’s legs. Mason caught it mid-stride, spun, shot low… but the goalie smothered it.
“Damn it!” Mason cursed, smacking his glove against the boards.
I pivoted, staying low, feeling the ice under my skates, the hum of adrenaline coursing through muscle and sinew. Carolina pressed again. I fed a cross-ice pass to Grayson, who pivoted without missing a beat, wrist shot—saved—but the rebound fell to Mason. He chipped it back to me, and in a flick that felt like instinct, I caught it on my forehand, stepped around a charging forward, and snapped it past the goalie’s right pad.
Surge 1, Hurricanes 1. Tie game.
“Keep it up, rookie!” Grayson barked, gloves high.
“Eyes on the net,” I called out, skating for position.
Hurricanes didn’t let up, body checks rattling ribs, sticks scraping ice. A forward lunged at me behind the net. I spun, stick in the air, passed to Mason, and we executed a give-and-go that left me facing the net again. I pulled the puck back at the last possible second, flicked it across the crease to Grayson, and he one-timed it in. Surge 2, Hurricanes 1.
“Beautiful feed!” he shouted, fist pumping.
“Move!” I yelled, waving Tucker and Cash Money in. “They’re on the counter!”
The first intermission passed in a blur. The locker room smelled of sweat, stale jerseys, and the cold metal of our gear. Coach paced, his face a tight line.
“First period’s done. Lead’s slim. They’re going to push harder. Don’t give them an inch. Keep your heads, cover your lanes, communicate. You know what you can do.”
Mason leaned toward me, wiping his mouth with the hem of his jersey. “You’re taking chances out there like you’re already ahead. Don’t get cute.”
“I’ve got Nicole watching,” I said, half in jest, but she was in my mind. Every glide, every fake, every pass mattered more than the score. She had been my constant through the season, my tether. I couldn’t let her down.
“Then play smart,” Mason said, voice quieter now. “You’re on fire, but we need control.”
Second period, puck dropped, and Hurricanes hit back. The forward line barreled down the middle, puck on the stick, and I charged in. A quick jab of my stick sent it sideways to Mason, who turned and threw it across ice to Grayson. He slipped past a defenseman, wrist shot, blocked. I corralled the rebound and found him again, threading a no-look pass that left him in space. Goal. Surge 3, Hurricanes 1.
“Way to thread it!”
We regrouped near our net, sticks resting against the boards, sweat dripping, breaths sharp but measured. Carolina’s aggression didn’t waver. They scored again midway through the period, a slap shot from the point that deflected off Mason’s skate and past Hunter. Surge 3, Hurricanes 2.
“Focus, boys. We’ve got time,” I said, grabbing a water bottle, swallowing hard, trying to keep the nerves from spilling into panic.
Tucker grinned at me, gloves wet with ice and sweat. “You’re dialed in tonight, Cross. Keep those passes going.”
I returned a half-smile, circling the crease, already scanning for the next opening.
Hurricanes were relentless. They threw everything at us: hits, cross-checks, aggressive forechecking. I spun behind the net, dodged a charging forward, and slid a perfect pass to Grayson in the slot. He faked left, shot right, saved. But the rebound fell to Mason, and he put it in the net. Surge 4, Hurricanes 2.
Coach barked orders as the period wound down. “Good work, boys, but don’t ease up. Stay sharp for the final twenty minutes. They’ll throw everything at you.”
“Don’t ease up,” I echoed under my breath, thinking of Nicole, her face in the crowd, cheering like it was her own heart on the line. Every shift, every move, every assist was for her, too.
The horn sounded, period over. We skated toward the locker room, muscles burning, our nerves raw. Grayson clapped me on the shoulder. “That assist—classic Landon Cross. You’re back.”
“Back’s just a word,” I said, shaking off my helmet. “Let’s finish this.”
Coach’s voice cut through the low murmur of the room. “Two periods down. Lead’s in your favor, but they’re not done. Strategy holds. Communicate. Support each other.”
Mason leaned close. “We’ve been here before, and we’ve won it. Same story.”
“Same story,” I said, exhaling as much of my anxiety as I could. “For Nicole, for this team, for every goddamn second we’ve fought to get here.”
“For twenty years of fighting the good fight.” Tucker lifted his stick in the air, and all the guys followed suit.
We were silent for a beat, the weight of the moment settling in. The ice wasn’t forgiving. Neither were the Hurricanes. But we had the heart, the fire, the drive, and each other. And that, I realized, was the thing no opposing line could touch.
