“I’m never not,” I said, and shoved everything that wasn’t Dallas Stars and the Winter Classic to the back of my mind.
The noise shifted. Sharper now. More purposeful. Sticks knocked against the floor. Helmets came on. The air tightened into that familiar coil.
“Let her think whatever she needs to think. After the season, you can explain.”
After the season, sure. Provided she was still around and still gave a shit.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing the word out. “You’re right.”
He clapped my shoulder once and smirked. “I usually am.”
As I slid on my helmet, the outside noise filtered down to a dull roar, like hearing the ocean through concrete. It helped shrink my world back to nothing but the ice.
Nicole would be fine. She was smart. Strong. She’d move on.
That was the story I told myself as we lined up for the tunnel, as the door swung open and cold air rushed in, carrying thesound of ninety thousand people waiting to see if The Surge still deserved the crown.
I squared my shoulders and stepped forward.
I hit the ice already moving, legs warm, lungs ready, boards rattling under the noise pouring down from the Cotton Bowl stands. The crowd never fully settled here. It rolled, surged, broke apart, came back again. Every stride carried weight because nothing about this game was casual. National cameras, and national pressure to prove ourselves. No way was Dallas going to hand it to us.
I lined up on the right side, stick blade flat, eyes forward. Grayson took the draw, and the puck came back clean. Tucker stepped into it, sent it up the boards, and I was already gone.
Dallas closed fast. They always did. Heavy forecheck, bodies finishing every check, sticks in lanes. I cut inside the blue line, chipped it past their defenseman, chased my own play into the corner. Their left D tried to pin me, shoulder first. I rode it, skates carving, kicked the puck loose with my heel and fed it back to Mason trailing high.
Shot went wide. Grayson crashed the net anyway. Goalie covered. Whistle.
That was how it started. No easing in. No feeling anything out. Just full pressure from the first shift.
On the bench, Mason nudged my shin pad with his stick. “They’re biting early.”
“Good,” I said. “Means they’re nervous.”
He smiled without looking at me, already watching the next line jump over the boards.
Dallas struck first midway through the period. A turnover at our blue line. Quick pass through the slot. Hunter got a piece of it, but not enough. The Stars’ bench exploded.
1-0.
The crowd ate that shit up.
Grayson skated past our bench after the goal, jaw set, eyes scanning faces. “Answer fast.”
Next shift, I carried the puck end to end. Took a hit at center but kept it, slipped between their defensemen at the line. I drove wide, pulled the puck back toward my skates, and snapped a shot far side. Goalie got his fucking blocker on it, and the rebound got kicked to the corner.
I circled behind the net, scooped it up again, fed it to Mason parked near the crease. He got shoved just as he tried to jam it home.
Whistle again. Gloves stayed on, but the shoving that followed that call was more intense than usual.
Dallas liked to poke. They liked to test limits.
Late in the first, they took a penalty. Hooking on Mason as he cut through the neutral zone.
Our power play went out buzzing with intent without any need to name it. Tucker at the point. Grayson drifting to the left circle. Me on the right, waiting.
The puck moved clean. Tape to tape. Dallas collapsed hard, sticks out. Tucker faked the shot and slid it to me. I didn’t wind up for showmanship. I stepped into space and snapped it through traffic.
The net rippled.
