I nodded once and headed back to the locker room. The guys were starting to filter toward the tunnel, energy building, and I fell into line beside Rook.
“You good?” he asked, not looking at me.
“Yeah. I'm good.”
“You sure? Because you look?—”
“I said I'm good.” But I was smiling slightly, and Rook caught it.
“Jesus Christ, Hart. Right before the biggest game of the season?”
“Shut up.”
He laughed quietly and shook his head.
We lined up in the tunnel, and I felt the arena's energy hit me like a physical force. The crowd was deafening, the lights too bright, and I could feel eyes on me from every direction. Cameras. Fans. Media. Everyone waiting to see if I'd crack.
I stepped onto the ice with pain under my skin and love in my chest—both equally dangerous.
And I'd never felt more ready.
The game started like a war.
The Calgary Titans came out heavy, throwing hits from the first faceoff, trying to establish dominance early. Their captain, Chris Brennan, was leading the charge—big, mean, the kind of player who made a career out of making skill guys like me uncomfortable.
I took a check into the boards on my second shift from one of their D-men that sent lightning up my bad leg. The impact rattled my teeth, and for a second I saw stars blooming behind my eyes. But my face didn't change. I pushed off the boards, chased the puck down, and finished my shift before limping back to the bench.
Tess was waiting, eyes narrowed, tablet already in hand. “Pain level?”
“Five.” It was closer to seven, but she didn't need to know that yet.
“Jace—”
“I'm fine. Next shift.”
She didn't believe me. But she let it go because there was nothing else to do. I was playing, and we both knew it.
The first period was a grind. Both teams trading chances, neither willing to give an inch. The Titans were fast, disciplined,and their goalie looked locked in—tracking every puck, making saves look easy.
I got an early look halfway through the period—clean shot from the slot, right in my wheelhouse. The old me would've buried it. But my legs didn't have the same pop, and the shot came off my stick a fraction slow. Their goalie read it, made the save, and I swallowed my frustration.
“Nice try, Hartley!” One of their forwards skated past, grinning. “Heard you were injured. Looks like it's true.”
I ignored him. Skated back to the bench.
Grant was watching, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But I saw his eyes track my stride, cataloguing every hitch, every compensation.
Elias kept us alive with a huge save midway through the period—a point-blank chance from Brennan that should've been a goal. He robbed him with a glove save that had the bench erupting, guys banging sticks against the boards.
“Let's fucking go, Sato!” Mace was screaming.
Then we took a penalty. Borderline call—Hallowell's stick barely touched their forward's hands, but the ref's arm went up anyway. The building booed. I saw June in the tunnel, phone pressed to her ear, looking ready to fight the entire league office.
The penalty kill was brutal. Two minutes of chaos—blocked shots, desperate clears, bodies throwing themselves in front of pucks. Rook took one off the shin that had to hurt like hell but he didn't even flinch. Finn chirped one of the Titans mid-clear, something about his mother, and I almost laughed despite the exhaustion burning in my legs.
We killed it. Barely.
Then, with two minutes left in the period, they scored.
