The pass came through traffic, skittering just enough to make it seem fifty-fifty. I caught it on the toe, jabbed it forward, tried to roof it. The goalie got a piece this time, glove flashing, puck popping loose instead of dying.
The groan from the fans was short-lived, because they saw me chasing it down myself. Their cheers expanded the ice as I cut behind the net, felt a stick hook my arm and ignored it. Looping around, I fed the puck back out with blind trust someone would be there.
Mason was.
He one-timed it before the goalie could reset, and this time there was no argument from the net.
Bench erupted. Mason had scored, but it was my name echoing off the rafters in a chant. Someone else smacked the boards so hard it rattled the glass, and I skated past the Sharks’ crease with a shit-eating grin.
“Holding up okay, big guy?”
“Eat a dick,” their goalie spat.
Between shifts, I glanced up into the stands without meaning to. Or maybe meaning to a little. Each time I caught Nicole’s eye,she jumped to her feet and gesticulated wildly, my name coming off her lips even though I couldn’t quite distinguish it between all the noise.
Still, that settled me more than any pep talk could have.
Third period came fast and mean. San Jose pushed like their lives depended on it, dumped pucks deep, and tried to grind us down. Our legs burned. My lungs did too.
Every game has a point where your body starts negotiating, and this was it. I kept telling myself one more shift, one more sprint, one more hit. The guys’ faces showed the same exhausted determination, and that was when I knew there was no room for a loss. We were going to finish the game with everything out on the ice.
I chased a loose puck into the corner, took a shoulder to the back, but kept my feet. The puck rimmed around the boards. Tucker snagged it up, danced once to buy space, then sent it back up high. Grayson fired from the blue line, shot wide on purpose and sent the puck sailing off the end boards and back into the slot.
Back to where I was waiting for it.
The goalie slid across, pad down. I adjusted mid-stride, lifted the puck just enough to clear the pad and watched it disappear under the crossbar. No hesitation this time. Nothing but pure instinct.
I felt the impact before I heard the crowd. Mason slammed into me from the side, laughing as he shook me by the shoulders. Grayson hooked an arm around my shoulder as we coasted past the crease, sweat dripping, breath ragged, everything loud and bright and sharp-edged in the best way.
“This is what we came here to do. Keep it up.”
The ‘we’ grated my insides, but I made no sign of it. Just smiled and nodded, although my gaze snapped over to the ex-Panther in the stands. He got it. He knew what I was dealing with.
We didn’t let up after that. We couldn’t afford to.
San Jose scored late. One of those ugly net-front scrambles where the puck squirts free and nobody’s happy about it. The building went tense. Time slowed into chunks measured by whistles and heartbeats.
Last shift. Tie game pressure pressed at the back of my skull. They couldn’t grab another goal. We didn’t have it in us to fight back from a draw.
Tucker blocked a shot at the blue line, and kicked the puck to Mason. He didn’t look. He knew where I’d be. He always did when it mattered.
I broke up ice, legs screaming, defender closing fast. I chipped the puck past him, chased it down, cut toward the middle instead of the boards. The goalie came out aggressively, trying to cut the angle.
“Now!”
I glimpsed the captain sliding into space, and shot the puck across the crease instead of going for goal.
Grayson buried it.
The final horn felt unreal when it sounded. There weren’t enough minutes for San Jose to close the gap. Arms around shoulders. Sticks tapping ice. The kind of ending that made every bad shift before it worth surviving.
I was halfway down the ramp to the locker room, skates squealing against the concrete, when Holly fell in step beside me.
“Got a second?”
“For you?” I asked, grinning wide. “Always.”
Her laugh was performative, but I appreciated the gesture. “I put you forward to make a speech at the anniversary gala.”
