I nodded and sat down, forcing myself to breathe.
Three minutes left. The game felt like it could break either way. Both teams were exhausted, sloppy, making desperate plays. Then Rook won a faceoff in our zone, and Volkov made a perfect breakout pass to Finn. Finn hit Mercer in stride, and Mercer carried it into their zone with speed.
I was trailing the play, trying to get into position. Mercer drew the defense, then made an impossible pass—threading it through two sticks directly onto my blade at the top of the circle. Same spot I'd just hit the post from.
Their goalie was cheating left, expecting me to pass. I could hear Bowen yelling something.
I fired.
Top corner. Bar down. The goalie never had a chance.
Five-four. Two minutes left.
The building detonated. My teammates mobbed me, and I couldn't hear anything except roaring and the sound of my ownheartbeat. When I looked at the bench, Coach was standing there, arms crossed, and he gave me one small nod.
Good.
Vancouver pulled their goalie with a minute thirty left, throwing everything at us in desperation. Six attackers. Chaos in our zone. Blocked shots, desperate clears, bodies throwing themselves in front of pucks. Elias made two huge saves that kept us alive.
Final thirty seconds, they had possession in our zone. Their shooter wound up from the point, but Rook dove and blocked it with his chest. The puck bounced out to center ice, and Mace chipped it toward the empty net. It slid in with ten seconds left. Six-four.
The horn sounded, and we'd won.
The handshake line was tense. Bowen's grip was hard when we shook hands, and his smile was gone. “Got lucky tonight, Hartley.”
“Scoreboard says otherwise.”
His jaw clenched, but he moved on. Their coach, Sullivan, barely looked at Coach when they shook hands. Just a quick, tight grip and then he was gone, already heading to the tunnel with his team trailing behind him looking pissed.
The locker room was loud—musicplaying, guys celebrating, Finn doing some ridiculous dance move that made Mace throw a towel at him. The relief and joy of a comeback win was electric, buzzing through the room like adrenaline.
I sat in my stall, unlacing my skates, letting the noise wash over me. We'd won. Came back from two goals down. ProvedBowen wrong. Proved Sullivan wrong. Proven the system could work.
The door opened and Coach walked in.
The music cut off immediately. The celebration stopped mid-laugh. Everyone turned to look at him.
He stood at the front of the room, and his face wasn't celebratory. It was serious. Controlled. The same expression he'd worn when we were down two goals in the second period.
“Good win,” he said, and let that sit for a moment. “You battled back. You didn't quit when it got hard. You executed when it mattered most. That's worth acknowledging.”
A few guys smiled, started to relax.
“But,” Coach's voice cut through any premature celebration, “that was sloppy as hell.”
The room went quiet.
“We gave up four goals. Four. In a home opener against a team we should've controlled from the start.” He started pacing, that deliberate movement that meant he was working through a mental checklist. “Two of those goals were completely preventable mistakes.”
He stopped and looked at Volkov. “First goal. You pinched with no support. Left Hallowell on an island defending a two-on-one. That's undisciplined.”
Volkov's jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Yes, Coach.”
“Hallowell. You played that two-on-one soft. Gave him the shooting lane instead of taking away his options. You're better than that.”
Tate looked at the floor. “Won't happen again.”
Coach moved on, not dwelling but not letting it slide either. “Third goal. Defensive zone coverage broke down completely. Three guys chasing the puck, no one covering the back door. That's Little League hockey, not professional.”
