Good.
Seattle didn't roll over.
They came back with a goal early in the third—a garbage goal off a scramble in front of the net where three guys crashed Elias and the puck somehow squeezed through. Two to one Their crowd exploded, suddenly believing again, and the noise was deafening.
Coach called a timeout.
We huddled around the bench, breathing hard, and he kept it simple. No panic, no speeches. Just adjustments. “They're pinching their D. That means we have numbers on the rush.Hartley, Rook, Cho—you're first line over the boards. Play fast. Play smart. Don't give them momentum.”
I nodded, sucked down water, and went back out.
Seattle threw everything at us. They pulled bodies forward, crashed the net, took chances that would've been reckless in the first period but made sense when you were desperate.
Volkov was a fucking beast on defense, shutting down their top line with hits that echoed through the arena. Mace blocked a shot with his shin that had to hurt like hell, but he didn't even flinch. Elias was standing on his head, making saves that had no business happening.
With three minutes left, Seattle pulled their goalie.
Six attackers. Extra chaos. The ice felt smaller, more dangerous. Every pass had to be perfect. Every decision had to be instant.
I was on the ice for the final two minutes, my legs screaming, my lungs burning. The puck was a live grenade, bouncing around our zone, and we couldn't clear it. Seattle kept it in, kept the pressure on, and I could feel the game tipping.
Then Rook did what Rook did.
Their shooter wound up for a one-timer from the point and Rook threw himself in front of it. The puck hit him square in the chest, and he went down hard, but the puck deflected wide.
I grabbed it off the boards and chipped it out of the zone, finally,finallygiving us a breath.
Rook got up slow, wincing, and skated back to the bench. The crowd was screaming. The clock was ticking down. Forty seconds left.
Seattle came again. Of course they did. They had nothing to lose.
But we held.
Volkov cleared the puck with ten seconds left, icing it, and that was it. The final ten seconds ticked off with the puck in their end, and when the buzzer sounded, the relief was palpable.
We'd won.
Barely. Messily. But we'd won.
I bent over at the blue line, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. My whole body was shaking—adrenaline, exhaustion, the comedown from almost losing my shit in the first period and then somehow holding it together.
Elias was getting mobbed at his crease, rightfully so—he'd stolen that game. Rook was leaning against the boards, catching his breath, probably nursing a bruise the size of a dinner plate on his chest. Finn was yelling something at the Seattle bench, because of course he was.
When I straightened up and skated toward the bench, my eyes found Coach first.
He was standing behind the bench, arms crossed, watching the team celebrate. His expression was calm, controlled, the same look he always had after games—like he was already analyzing what went wrong and what needed fixing. But when our eyes met, something shifted in his face. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see the relief there, the pride, the same thing I was feeling.
I looked away before anyone else could notice.
But I hated that it was becoming a pattern. Hated that the first person I wanted to see after a win—after almost falling apart—was him.
The hotel was a fucking zoo.
We rolled in around midnight, and the lobby was chaos. Guys were loud, wired from the win, talking shit and shoving each other like we were still in high school. Finn was trying to convince Mace to go find food. Tate was already Facetiming someone, probably a sponsorship rep or a model or whoever the fuck Tate talked to. Rook was doing his captain thing, making sure everyone had their key cards and knew the curfew.
I hung back near the entrance, waiting for my room assignment, trying to look like I wasn't scanning the crowd for Coach.
I found him near the front desk, and he looked pissed.
