I had a chance five minutes in—rebound sitting right in front of the net. But my leg buckled when I tried to get to it, and their defenseman cleared it before I could recover.
“Getting slow, Hartley!” Brennan chirped as he skated past. “Maybe you should sit this one out. Let the healthy players work.”
“Fuck off, Brennan,” Finn snapped from the bench.
Ten minutes left. Then eight. The clock becoming our enemy.
Then I took a hit into the boards.
I went down like a stone, shoulder slamming into the glass, leg buckling underneath me. The impact drove the air from my lungs. For a second, I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Just lay there tasting copper and feeling my body scream.
The ref's whistle was distant. Voices calling my name were muffled.
Then I got up.
Slowly. Carefully. Like a ghost refusing to accept death.
Pain was a fire behind my eyes, but I didn't show it. Just skated back to the bench on autopilot and took my next shift.
“Hartley, you sure you're—” Tess started.
“I'm fine.”
June was white-knuckling her phone in the tunnel. Paul watched from the press box like a predator calculating odds.
I didn't break.
With five minutes left, we tied it.
Scramble in front of the net. Bodies everywhere. I screened the goalie, took a crosscheck to the ribs that made stars burst behind my eyes, and the puck deflected off my skate and in.
Two to two.
The building detonated. Guys mobbed me, and I let them even though every impact hurt. Because we were alive. Still fighting. Still in this.
The Titans came back hard. Desperate now. Brennan was throwing his weight around, trying to impose his will. But we matched them hit for hit.
Final minute, they got a breakaway. Clean. Just their forward and Elias.
The arena held its breath.
Elias made a save that felt like fate—glove hand, fully extended, robbery. The puck hit his glove and I heard the collective exhale of fifteen thousand people.
The horn sounded. Regulation over and we were tied.
Overtime.
Every pass a risk.Every stride cost me. The leg was beyond pain now—just a numb, distant thing I dragged behind me through sheer will.
The arena was deafening. Every shift felt like it might be the last. One mistake and it was over.
I got a chance early. Partial breakaway. Clean look. But I didn't have the burst to finish. Pain stole speed, and their goalie made the save.
I hated it. Hated my body for betraying me when it mattered most.
Then they got a power play—penalty on Volkov for a slash that might not have been a slash—and we survived by inches. Blocked shots, sticks snapping, bodies throwing themselves in front of pucks like grenades.
Rook blocked one with his face. Blood poured from his nose but he stayed on the ice.
