Deflection.
Rook had tipped it perfectly, changing the angle just enough that their goalie had no chance. The puck hit twine, and the red light flashed.
Goal.
The bench exploded. I crashed into Rook, grabbed his helmet, screamed something incoherent. The few hundred Wolves fans who'd made the trip were losing their minds, and suddenly the building didn't feel so hostile anymore.
“Let's fucking go!” Finn was screaming, slamming into all of us. “Bury these fuckers!”
Back to the bench, and Coach was standing there with his arms crossed, but I caught the tiniest hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
“That's one,” he said. “Now get another one.”
Six minutes left.
Boston came at us hard, trying to retake the lead before we could build momentum. Their top line was buzzing—fast, skilled, relentless. Elias made two more huge saves, and Volkov blocked a shot with his shin that had to hurt like hell but he didn't even flinch.
“Hold the line!” Rook was shouting. “Make them earn it!”
Four minutes.
We got possession and tried to push back, but Boston's defense was locked in. Every time we tried to enter their zone,they collapsed, forcing us to regroup. The clock was becoming an enemy now, ticking down too fast.
Three minutes.
TV timeout, and we huddled at the bench. Everyone was dead on their feet, breathing hard, faces red and slick with sweat.
“Next goal wins it,” Mace said, and nobody disagreed.
Coach leaned over the boards. “First line—Hartley, Rook, Cho—you're going out after this. I want speed. I want pressure. Make something happen.”
“Yes, Coach.”
He caught my eye, held it for a half-second longer than he should have. Something passed between us—trust, maybe, or expectation—and then he looked away.
The timeout ended. We lined up for the faceoff in the neutral zone.
My heart was hammering so hard I could hear it over the crowd noise.
Rook won the draw clean, pulling it back to Volkov. I was already moving, finding space on the wall, calling for it. The pass came hard and flat, and I caught it in stride.
I drove up ice, feeling their D-man angle toward me. To my left, Benny was creating space. To my right, Rook was driving hard to the net.
Options. I had options.
Their forward tried to step up and cut me off, but I chipped it past him and accelerated. The puck was loose in their zone now, and it was a race. I got there first, took possession, and cut toward the middle.
Two minutes thirty seconds left.
Their D-man was on my back, stick checking, trying to separate me from the puck. I protected it, kept my feet moving, scanning for the play.
That's when I saw it—the opening. A lane to the net. Their goalie was cheating slightly to his left, overcommitting to the pass option to Rook.
If I could get a shot off, top shelf, far side?—
I wound up.
The defenseman hit me from behind.
