She smiled, and that look followed me back into the locker room.
The third period started with everything on a knife edge.
Every shift mattered. Every mistake felt amplified. The crowd was on their feet, noise crashing over the ice in waves.
Midway through the period, Colorado took the lead again. A clean shot from the slot. No chance for our goalie. The bench went silent for half a heartbeat.
Then Tucker stood up.
“Hey,” he said, making sure each of us was listening. “We’ve been here before. We know how to answer.”
I pushed off the boards for my next shift feeling like my blood had turned into pure electricity.
We hemmed them in their zone, cycling the puck, grinding them down. I took a hit along the boards, popped back up, stole the puck, and sent it behind the net. Mason crashed the crease and jammed it home through a pile of bodies.
3–3.
The building detonated.
I pointed at him as we skated past the bench. “That’s how you do it.”
Time ticked down.
Five minutes.
Four.
Every shift felt like it could be the one.
Then Coach leaned over the boards and tapped his finger against my chest.
“You’re up,” he said. “Make something happen.”
I nodded.
The puck dropped in our zone. Grayson won it clean back to Tucker, who fired a stretch pass up the boards.
I took it in stride at center ice.
Colorado closed fast. Two defenders angling in, trying to force me wide.
I faked left, shifted my weight, and pulled the puck through my skates, threading between them. The crowd gasped as I burst free into open ice.
Breakaway.
The goalie squared up, calm, patient, trying to read me.
I slowed.
Just a fraction.
Let him think I was going forehand. Let him drop his shoulder. Let him commit.
Then I snapped the puck behind my own leg, toe-dragged it back across my body, and went backhand, lifting it just enough to clear the pad.
Time stopped.
The puck kissed the post and disappeared into the net.
