The Saints scored early in the second on a weird bounce that deflected off Volkov's skate and past Elias. Two to two. Then they scored again midway through the period when their center split our defense and went backhand shelf on a breakaway. Three to two, Saints, and the arena got the kind of quiet that meant twenty thousand people were holding their breath.
With three minutes left in the period, Benny Cho stripped their defenseman at our blue line and fed me a clean pass as I crossed the offensive zone. I one-timed it top shelf before their goalie could react. The puck hit twine and the red light flashed. Three to three.
The third periodopened with both teams playing desperate hockey. Midway through, one of the Saints' defensemen ran Elias after the whistle, a late hit that was cheap even by preseason standards. Before the linesman could get there, Mace had dropped his gloves. It was fast and surgical, three punches and the guy went down, and then Mace was skating to the penalty box with blood on his knuckles and complete satisfaction on his face.
The Saints were on a full power play with fifteen minutes left.
We killed it with desperate blocked shots and Elias standing tall, making two big stops on the doorstep. When Mace finally came back, the entire bench tapped his shin pads in turn. He'd earned it.
The score was still tied at three. Kane won a draw in our zone and the Saints cycled the puck with patient precision. Their point man walked the blue line and fired through traffic. The puck deflected off Tate's stick and changed direction completely, sliding past Elias before anyone could read it. Four to three, Saints.
The arena went quiet again. The specific silence that meant everyone was asking the same question at once: were we going to fold or fight?
I wanted to fight.
We pressed hard, throwing everything at their net. With ninety seconds left, our coach pulled Elias for the extra attacker. Six on five. Volkov controlled the puck at the blue line and slid it to Tate, who fired through traffic. The puck hit bodies and bounced free in the high slot.
Right to me.
I didn't think. Couldn't afford to. Thinking was the enemy. I just swung.
The puck rocketed into the back of the net so fast I barely processed it. Four to four. Seventy seconds on the clock.
My teammates swarmed me, and for a few seconds the noise from the crowd was so loud it was almost physical, pressing against my chest from the inside out. I let it happen. Let myself be in it.
Then we lined up for the next faceoff.
We won the draw and cycled the puck in their zone, hunting for the winner. Rook fed me a pass at the top of the circle: myoffice, the place I'd scored from a hundred times. Their defense was scrambling. The goalie was cheating to his glove side.
I pulled the trigger.
The puck went top corner, bar down. The sound of it catching the mesh was the sweetest thing I'd heard in months. Five to four, Northgate. Thirty-eight seconds left.
The crowd went absolutely feral.
The Saints pulled their goalie for the extra attacker, but Rook won the defensive zone draw and chipped it the length of the ice. The puck slid into the empty net. Six to four. Final.
We won.
Kane looked me in the eye during the handshake line. “Hell of a game, Hartley. Good to see you shooting again.”
“You too, Cap.”
His grip was firm and his eyes were respectful, and I hated how much that mattered to me.
The locker roomafterward was controlled chaos. Finn had his phone out, filming himself dancing to whatever garbage pop music was blasting through the speakers. Mace was yelling at someone about defensive coverage being “softer than baby shit,” which earned him a middle finger from Benny, our analytics darling who'd quietly had a perfect game.
I stripped off my gear in the corner, moving on autopilot. Shoulder pads. Elbow pads. Shin guards. Each piece came off like I was dismantling armor, exposing the soft parts underneath.
Rook appeared next to me, still half-dressed. He didn't say anything at first, just leaned against my stall and watched mewith that unnerving way he had, like he could read your entire psychological profile from how you untied your skates.
“Good game,” he said finally, voice even and assessing.
“Thanks, Cap.” I kept my eyes on my laces.
“You good?”
I looked up and gave him my best PR smile, the one that had sold a thousand jerseys and convinced sponsors I was worth millions. “Never better. Just tired.”
