No pressure.
The guys were goingthrough their routines—Volkov methodically retaping his stick for the third time, Mace bouncing on his skates with nervous energy, Finn chirping someone about their pre-game playlist. The energy was focused but electric, that familiar buzz of bodies ready to explode into motion.
I sat at the end of the bench and tried to breathe through the noise in my head.
Across the ice, Boston was doing their own warm-up routines. I watched their top line—fast, skilled, physical—and felt my chest tighten. They knew how to play against us. Had proven it twice last season.
“Hey.” Rook dropped onto the bench next to me. “You ready?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure? Because you look like you're about to puke.”
“I'm fine.”
“Hartley.” He waited until I looked at him. “You're one of the best players I've ever played with. You can do this. Just get out there and play your game.”
I nodded, throat tight. “Thanks, Cap.”
“And if you need someone to pass to when you panic, I'll be there.”
“I'm not going to panic.”
“I know. But if you do—I'm there.”
Coach moved down the bench toward us, and the scattered conversations died immediately. He didn't have his clipboard. Didn't have notes. Just stood there in front of the bench with his arms crossed, and the weight of what this game meant was written in every line of his face.
“Boston,” he said, voice low enough that we had to lean in to hear him over the arena noise. “They beat us twice last season, and they think they have our number.”
He paused, eyes moving down the line, landing on each of us in turn.
“This is a qualifier. You all know what that means. Win, and we earn our spot in the preliminaries. We're in the conversation. Lose, and our season gets a hell of a lot harder.” His jaw tightened. “I don't plan on making it harder.”
Rook sat forward slightly, elbows on his knees. The whole bench was locked in now, leaning toward him.
“They're going to come out hitting. They're going to try to intimidate us, make us play their game. Rough us up, get in our heads, make us react instead of execute.” Coach's voice dropped lower. “We don't take that bait. We play disciplined. We play smart. We play our system.”
He turned slightly, eyes finding Rook. “Their top line is going to challenge your line all night, Rook. They're fast on the forecheck. Volkov, Hallowell—you need to move the puck quick. Don't let them set up in our zone.”
Volkov nodded once, face impassive as always.
Coach's eyes shifted to me. “Hartley. They're going to key on you. Their D-men are big and mean, and they're going to make you earn every inch of ice. So you move your feet, you keep your head up, and you use your linemates. Don't try to be a hero. Be smart.”
“Yes, Coach.”
His gaze held mine for a beat longer than necessary, and I saw something flicker there—concern, maybe, or warning—but it was gone before I could be sure.
“Special teams will matter,” he continued, turning back to address the whole bench. “Their penalty kill is aggressive. If we get a power play, we crash the net. We make their goalie uncomfortable. We don't settle for perimeter shots.”
Mace cracked his knuckles. “And if they start running guys?”
“Then you do your job,” Coach said flatly. “But you do it smart. No stupid penalties. No retaliation that costs us momentum. You protect your teammates, but you don't give them power plays.”
“Got it, Coach.”
The arena announcer's voice boomed over the speakers, calling out the starting lineups. Boston's crowd roared when their names were announced, and I felt the pressure ratchet up another notch.
Coach leaned forward slightly, hands gripping the boards, and when he spoke again his voice was quieter but somehow more intense.
