“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”
He stepped back, and the mask settled into place — arms crossed, expression neutral, coach again. “Now get out there and show them.”
I took a breath and went.
I touched the ice with my glove—routine, ritual—and joined the warm-up circle. My heart was still pounding, but it was game-day adrenaline now, not panic. The shaking had faded to background noise. I could do this. Coach had asked if I could, and I'd said yes, so I had to make it true.
Let's fucking go.
Boston cameout hitting everything that moved, trying to establish dominance early. Their first line was relentless—fast, skilled, mean—and they were targeting me specifically. Every time I touched the puck, someone was on me. Every time I tried to make space, I got a stick in my ribs or an elbow to the side.
“They're keying on you,” Rook said during a whistle. “Use it. Draw them in, move the puck quick.”
I nodded, sucking wind, and lined up for the faceoff.
First period was a grind. No goals for either team. Just hitting and battling and fighting for every inch. I had a few chances—one shot that hit the crossbar, another that the goalie got a piece of—but nothing found the net.
“Keep shooting,” Coach said when I came to the bench. “It'll come.”
No emotion. No reassurance. Just instruction.
Second period, Boston scored first on a weird bounce that went off Volkov's skate and past Elias. The crowd—their crowd—exploded, and I felt the pressure ratchet up another notch.
Come on. Tie it up. Do your fucking job.
We pressed hard, and with eight minutes left in the period, we finally broke through. Benny made a perfect pass through traffic, and I one-timed it top shelf before their goalie could react.
Goal.
The celebration was quick—fist bumps, taps on the helmet—and then we were back to work.
“That's it,” Coach called from the bench. “Keep it going. More of that.”
But Boston answered back three minutes later with another goal, and we went into the third period down two to one.
Boston came out desperate, playing like their season was on the line—because it was. They were clogging the neutral zone, icing the puck every chance they got, making us work for every goddamn inch. Their forecheckers were relentless, and their D-men were throwing hits like they were trying to put us through the boards.
My legs were burning, heavy like someone had filled them with concrete. My lungs were screaming for air that wouldn't come fast enough. But I kept going because that's what you did.
“Stay with it!” Coach's voice cut through from the bench during a line change. “Make them work harder than you!”
Five minutes in, Boston had a power play when Hallowell took a stick infraction. Two agonizing minutes of defending, blocking shots, sacrificing bodies. Elias made three saves that should've been goals, and when we killed it, our bench erupted.
“That's it! That's fucking hockey!” Mace was screaming, slamming his stick against the boards.
But we still needed a goal.
Eight minutes left.
We pressed hard. Benny made a great play to keep the puck in at their blue line. Rook cycled it low. I found space in the slot and Rook fed me a perfect pass. I wound up and fired?—
Their goalie got a piece of it with his blocker. The puck deflected high and wide.
“Fuck!” I slammed my stick against the ice.
“Again!” Coach's voice. “Do it again!”
We regrouped. Won the draw. This time Volkov carried it in, drew two defenders, and dished it to Hallowell at the point. One-timer toward the net?—
