“Good,” I said. “I play better when people get it wrong.”
He grinned. “What a coincidence? Me too.”
Across the room, the boys were chirping, pacing, tugging jerseys over shoulder pads. Music thumped, bass rattling thewalls. Coach stood near the whiteboard, arms crossed, letting us have this moment before strategy took over.
I leaned back, rolled my neck, and let myself picture the rink.
The Colorado Avalanche were fast, disciplined, and ruthless on the forecheck. They didn’t waste chances, and they sure as hell didn’t give many away. They knew all they had to do was keep us from winning.
The tunnel felt narrower than usual when we lined up. The roar of the crowd spilled into it, heavy and electric, vibrating through my chest. I stepped onto the ice, blades biting, and scanned the stands out of instinct more than hope.
She was there, like always. Third row, center ice, wearing her retired number twelve jersey. Hair pulled back, cheeks flushed, hands clasped together like she was trying to hold the entire game in place through sheer willpower.
My chest loosened even more when I noticed who wasn’t next to her.
No James.
No arm slung possessively over her shoulders. No too-clean smile or polite clapping. Just Nicole and her giant foam finger, eyes locked on the ice.
Something feral stirred in me.
“Focus,” Mason muttered beside me as the anthem wrapped up.
I nodded, but my mouth twitched. “I am.”
The puck dropped, and the game exploded right out the gate.
Colorado came out hard, exactly as expected. Heavy pressure, quick passes, trying to force us into mistakes. Hunter stood on his head early, flashing leather and swallowing rebounds. Iblocked a shot in the first shift and felt it ring up my shin, the pain sharp and grounding.
Good. Now I was awake.
The Surge answered with speed. Clean breakouts, and tape-to-tape passes. The bench came alive with every hit, every cleared zone. Mason took a roughing penalty after shoving a guy into the boards a little too enthusiastically.
“Worth it,” he yelled from the box, grinning like a menace.
They scored first.
A greasy rebound, wrong bounce, wrong time. The arena went quiet in that stunned way that feels like the air getting sucked out of a room.
I skated to center, jaw tight, heart steady.
Plenty of hockey left.
We tied it late in the first on a power play, a clean one-timer from the blue line that ripped past their goalie before he could set. I was on the ice, parked in front, screening, taking cross-checks like they were part of the job.
Between periods, the locker room was loud but focused.
“Keep pushing,” Coach said, tapping the board. “They’re starting to chase. Make them pay for it.”
Second period was a battle of wills and flying fists.
Colorado answered with another goal. We tied it again off a broken play that Mason turned into magic. He skated past the bench afterward, eyes wild.
“Not done,” he said. “Not even close.”
By the time the horn sounded for the second intermission, it was tied 2–2, sweat dripping, lungs burning, legs screaming.
I sat on the bench and looked up into the stands again. Nicole met my eyes immediately, like she’d been waiting for it.
