“Yeah.” His gaze held mine for a beat too long. “You are.”
Then he moved on, continuing down the aisle to check on the other guys, and I was left sitting there with my heart trying to punch its way out of my chest.
The game wasa disaster waiting to happen from the moment we stepped on the ice.
Seattle's arena was loud. Their fans hated us and it made every hit feel personal, every whistle feel like a goddamn riot waiting to break out. The air was thick with noise, and the ice felt too fast, too slick, like it was trying to throw me off balance.
First period went sideways almost immediately.
Their top line came at us hard, pressing high, forechecking like they had something to prove. Which they did—Seattle was fighting for a playoff spot, and we were in their way. Every shift felt like a war. Every touch of the puck came with a body on you, a stick in your ribs, a shove after the whistle.
I tried to stay focused. Tried to play my game, find my spots, wait for the right moment to strike. But their crowd was in my head, screaming every time I touched the puck, and their D-men were collapsing on me like I was the only fucking player on the ice.
Midway through the first, I made a mistake.
It wasn't huge. Just a pass that didn't connect, a turnover at the blue line that gave them an odd-man rush. Volkov shut it down before it became a real problem, but I still felt it like a knife between my ribs.
Idiot. Fucking idiot.
The crowd roared.My breath came a little shorter. And for one terrible second, I felt the panic flare—the same old wound,the same fucking fear that I wasn't good enough, that I was going to choke, that everyone was watching me fail.
Then Coach's voice cut through the noise from the bench, clear and steady.
“Next shift, Hartley.”
That was it. Two words. But they hit me like a reset button.
I sucked in a breath. Shook it off. Skated back to the bench and took my spot, and when I glanced down the line, Coach was watching me. Not with disappointment. Not with frustration. Just… steady. Like he knew exactly what had just happened in my head and wasn't worried about it.
The trust in that look did something to me. Something I didn't have time to unpack right now.
I went back out for my next shift and made a clean, smart play. Didn't force it. Didn't try to be a hero. Just took what the ice gave me, made the pass, supported the cycle. We didn't score, but we controlled the play, and that was enough.
The second period was a fucking grind.
Seattle came out hard, hungry, their crowd behind them like a living thing. Their defense was collapsing on our shooters, clogging the neutral zone, making us work for every goddamn inch of ice.
I took a hit along the boards that rattled my teeth—their D-man, number 44, a big bastard who played mean. He caught me with my head down, and the impact sent me into the glass hard enough that I saw stars for a second. The crowd loved it, roaring like they'd just won the Cup.
Get the fuck up.
I pushed off the boards and chased the play, my shoulder throbbing but my head clear. Clearer than it had been in weeks, actually.
Midway through the second, we caught a break.
Benny stripped the puck at their blue line with a smart poke check. He dished it to me in the high slot, and suddenly I had space. Their goalie was cheating left, overcommitted, and I had the angle.
I didn't think. Just fired.
The shot was clean—low blocker side, right where I wanted it—and it beat him clean. The red light flashed. The sound that came out of our bench was pure chaos.
Two to zero.
I raised my stick as the guys swarmed me, gloves pounding my helmet, voices shouting over each other. Finn nearly took me down with his enthusiasm, yelling something incoherent. Rook grabbed my jersey and yanked me close, eyes fierce. “That's it. That's the fucking shot.”
I grinned, breathless, and skated back toward the bench. My eyes went to Coach automatically—couldn't help it, didn't even try to stop it—and he was watching me.
He gave me a single nod.
