“Nice try, golden boy!” Bowen yelled from across the ice. “Maybe next time.”
When Mace crashed the net on a rebound and got stopped again, Bowen skated past him during the whistle. “Your guys can't buy a goal tonight. Should've kept the old coach, eh?”
Mace shoved him hard enough to draw the ref's attention. “Keep talking and I'll shut your mouth for you.”
“Ooh, scary.” Bowen laughed, skating backward. “What's wrong, can't handle some chirping?”
The ref separated them before it escalated. This wasn't just a game—they were making it personal.
Then they scored again. A nothing play, really—a point shot that deflected off Tate's stick, changing angles completely. Two-nothing. The building deflated with that collective exhale of disappointment, and I heard the first scattered boos. Not directed at us, exactly, but at the situation.
As we lined up for the faceoff, their center—a big French-Canadian named Bergeron—leaned in close to Rook. “Your coach, he looks nervous. Maybe he should be.”
Rook's jaw tightened but he didn't respond. He won the draw clean and got us moving. This time we executed. Quick passes, bodies moving, exactly what Coach had been drilling. I got the puck at the blue line, walked it to the circle, and fired. Their goalie made the save, but Mace was crashing the net and he buried the rebound. Two-one.
The building erupted, hope flooding back in, and I slapped Mace's gloves as we skated back. But we still went into intermission down one, and the room felt tight with frustration.
Coach kept it simple between periods. He stood at the front of the room, hands in his pockets, and looked at each of us in turn. “They're executing their system. We're not executing ours. Clean up the turnovers. Win your battles in the corners. Stick to the structure. We do that, we win this game.”
The second period started badly. They scored thirty seconds in—another deflection that Elias had no chance on. Three-one. The crowd groaned, and the boos got louder.
Bowen skated past our bench during a TV timeout, making sure his voice carried. “How's that system working now? Maybe try the old one?” He grinned at Coach. “One and done, right? That's what they're saying about you.”
“Shut your mouth,” Mace snapped from the bench.
“Just trying to help.” Bowen's smile was all teeth. “Heard your GM's already regretting the hire.”
I wanted to jump the boards and slam him into the glass. Instead, I focused on Coach's voice calling the next line change, steady and certain despite everything.
We started grinding. Not pretty hockey, but effective. I had a chance from my office that their goalie robbed with his glove, and I heard Bowen's voice: “Choke artist strikes again!”
But then we caught a break. Volkov pinched at the blue line and stripped their winger. He fed it to Rook in the slot, who one-timed it past their goalie. Three-two.
Two minutes later, Finn showed why he was worth the rookie hype. He picked off a lazy pass at center ice, turned on the jets, and blew past their defense like they were standing still. Breakaway. He went five-hole and buried it. Three-three. The crowd was deafening now, the momentum completely shifted.
“Lucky break,” Bowen said during the next faceoff. But his voice had lost some of its edge.
We took the lead with thirty seconds left in the second. We scrambled in front of the net, bodies everywhere, and the puck somehow found my stick. I didn't think, just one-touched it toward the net. It went in off their defenseman's skate. Four-three. The building absolutely erupted.
As we skated back to the bench, Bowen's chirping had stopped. Sullivan looked pissed on their bench, gesturing angrily at his team.
We went into the second intermission with the lead, and the room felt completely different. Energy. Belief. We'd clawed back from two goals down.
Coach didn't let us get comfortable. “Twenty minutes. That's all that matters. They're going to come out desperate. We stay disciplined. We play our game. We finish this.”
The third period was a war. Vancouver threw everything at us, and we bent but didn't break. They scored with twelve minutes left—a perfect shot that Elias had no chance on—and suddenly it was four-four. The building went quiet with tension.
Then I got my chance. Tate carried the puck into their zone, drew two defenders, and slid it across to me at the top of the circle. My office. Time slowed down. I could hear Bowen somewhere on the ice, probably about to chirp something about choking.
I fired.
The puck hit the post with that sickening metallic ping. It bounced out harmlessly, and the crowd groaned.
“Post! That's twice in two years, right Hartley?” Bowen's voice, loud and mocking. “Starting to be a pattern.”
My vision tunneled. My hands tightened on my stick.
“Hartley.” Coach's voice cut through. “Next shift.”
