Ugly deflection off Volkov's stick, scramble in front of the net, puck bouncing through traffic like a pinball before somehowfinding the back of the net. The Titans' bench erupted. Their fans screamed. The horn sounded and I felt the old spiral flare.
I swallowed it down and skated to the bench, focusing on breathing. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
End of first: nothing to one.
I limped to the locker room only when I was sure nobody could see. My leg was screaming, but I'd learned to compartmentalize pain. To file it away in a box labeled “deal with later” and focus on what I could control.
Grant stood in the middle of the room during intermission, calm and controlled despite the deficit. He didn't yell. Didn't panic. Just looked at each of us in turn.
“Next period,” he said simply. “We don't panic. We don't force it. We play our game and we answer.”
His eyes found mine for half a second.Trust yourself.
I nodded, jaw tight, and focused on breathing through the pain radiating from my leg.
The second periodopened with speed.
We tightened our forecheck, started winning battles in the corners, and the momentum shifted. The crowd woke up, sensing blood in the water. The Titans started playing chippy, trying to bait us into penalties.
Brennan crosschecked me after a whistle, leaning in close. “Heard your coach is fucking you. That true?”
I didn't take the bait. Just smiled. “Scoreboard, Captain.”
His face darkened, but the ref was already separating us.
I created the equalizer ten minutes in.
I saw Mercer cutting to the net before anyone else did, saw the lane open up for exactly two seconds. I threaded a passthrough two defenders, tape-to-tape, and watched him bury it top shelf.
The building erupted. Guys mobbed Mercer, and I skated in for a quick fist bump before heading back to the bench.
Tie game.
I pivoted wrong coming off the bench for my next shift, and the leg screamed. Pain whited out my vision for a second, and I grabbed the boards to keep from going down.
“Jace—” Tess was already moving toward me.
“I'm okay.” I wasn't. But I couldn't stop. Not now. Not with everything on the line.
A scrum broke out near the boards a few shifts later. One of the Titans tried to bait me, crosschecking me after the whistle, shoving me into the glass. But Rook stepped in immediately. Pushed the guy back, took the heat, put himself between me and trouble without a word.
The Titans' player backed off, muttering something about favoritism. Rook just stared at him until he skated away.
Then they scored again on a bad bounce. Shot from the point, deflection off Volkov's skate, puck changing direction at the last second. Elias had no chance.
The Titans celebrated like they'd won the Cup. Brennan skated past our bench, chirping something I didn't catch.
End of second shift.
My leg was a fire. My shoulder throbbed with every breath. I could barely feel my fingers from gripping the stick so hard.
Grant gathered us in the locker room, and I saw the tension in his shoulders. The worry he was trying to hide.
“Twenty minutes,” he said. “Twenty minutes between us and the next round. Twenty minutes to prove what we're made of.”
The third periodwas heartbreak and hope bleeding together.
We poured on pressure. Shot after shot. Their goalie stood on his head, making saves that felt impossible—glove saves, pad saves, one with his blocker that defied physics. The crowd got frantic, desperate, willing the puck into the net.
