The puck cycles around, Marcus bombs a shot from the point, it bounces off a shinpad, and Ash is there for the rebound,quick hands, in the net before the goalie even registers what’s happened.
He doesn’t celebrate. Just skates past the Titans’ bench and gives Kruchten a look so cold it could freeze vodka. The crowd goes nuclear.
Next shift, Kruchten goes after him. He throws a cross-check so blatant even the blindest ref can’t miss it.
The whistle blows, but Ash just gets up and laughs, skating to the box without a word.
On the penalty kill, it’s all about damage control. I’m alone in the net, vision tunneled to the point of pain.
The puck is a blur, but my brain is faster. I track every pass, every tip, every screen. At the buzzer, I’ve made fourteen saves, and the scoreboard reads 1-0, us.
Intermission is a black hole of nerves and adrenaline. The locker room is a fog of sweat, ammonia, and blood, Kai’s got a cut on his cheek, Tommy’s knuckles are already splitting open, and Ash is chugging Gatorade like he’s dying of thirst.
I sit in the corner, eyes closed, replaying the last twenty minutes on loop, looking for any sign of weakness.
Second period starts worse. They adjust, double-team Ash on every possession, start throwing elbows, hooks, anything to slow him down. The ref calls nothing.
It’s prison rules now. We lose a man to a cheap shot, four minutes for roughing, and then it’s trench warfare in front of my net. They get a lucky bounce, puck off a skate, ties the game.
The sound in the arena dies for a second, then comes back twice as loud.
Ash is a marked man now. Every time he touches the puck, he gets dogpiled. But he keeps coming.
Late in the period, we get a chance. Raz wins a faceoff clean, Tommy fires a wrister, and Ash, parked in the slot, threads apass between two defenders to set up Kai, who buries it clean. Textbook vision.
Ash doesn't even celebrate his own assist, just pounds the glass once and points at Kai. Not showboating.
Just letting everyone know they're alive.
The Titans answer back immediately. Kruchten muscles his way past two defenders, gets loose in the slot, rips one five-hole.
I get a piece of it, but not enough. Tie game, 2-2. He celebrates like he just solved cancer, skates past our bench and makes a kissing face at Ash. I want to murder him.
Third period, everything is pain. My legs are numb, my gloves soaked, helmet dripping sweat into my eyes.
Every time I look up, I see Ash skating, relentless, refusing to give an inch. He draws a penalty, then another, always getting back up, always laughing about it. We can’t get the go-ahead goal.
The Titans’ goalie is standing on his head, and every missed chance feels like a gun to the head.
Then, with five minutes left, Ash does something I will never forget.
He takes a clearing pass, spins off the boards, and dangles not one, but two Titans defenders, slipping the puck between their sticks like it’s nothing.
He’s one-on-one with the goalie, fakes shot, then dekes to the backhand and lifts it top shelf.
The entire building is on its feet before the puck even hits the netting.
He turns, glides to the corner, and just stands there, arms out, letting the sound roll over him. He doesn’t look at me, but I can see the smile in the set of his shoulders.
The next four minutes are hell.
They pull their goalie with a minute left, extra attacker, Kruchten parked in the crease, looking for any tip, any garbage goal.
The puck is in our zone the whole time. I block shot after shot, body in the way, face in the way, whatever it takes. Thirty-eight saves and I feel every one of them in my bones.
Final twenty seconds. Kruchten gets loose, breakaway. It’s just me and him. He tries to go five-hole again, but I don’t bite.
I close it off, and the puck thuds against my pad, harmless. I freeze it, whistle blows.
