Warm-ups were a blur. Passing drills, shooting practice, stretching. The whole time, I was aware of the crowd, the cameras, the weight of every eye on us.
When we returned to the ice after warm-ups and they announced the starting lineup, my name got a huge cheer. Marco’s got even louder.
We lined up for the national anthem. I stood on the blue line with my linemates, Marco a few yards away. The singer’s voice filled the arena, and I tried to focus on the words, on breathing, on staying calm.
But all I could think about was the crowd. The support. That we were really doing this.
The anthem ended. The crowd roared. The ref skated to center ice with the puck.
Game time.
The first period was intense.
Buffalo came out aggressive, testing us early with a hard forecheck and physical play. I took a hit in the corner that rattled my teeth, got back up, kept skating.
On the bench, Kinnunen sat beside me during line changes. “You good?”
“Yeah. That was clean.”
“Mostly.”
Seven minutes in, a Buffalo forward got the puck behindour net and tried to muscle past Marco. Marco held his ground, tied him up, and Kuzmin swooped in to clear it.
I watched from the bench, tracked the play, and waited for my next shift.
When I got back on the ice, my nerves settled. This was still hockey. Still the game I’d played my whole life. The crowd noise faded into the background as I focused on the puck, on positioning, on doing my job.
Midway through the period, Buffalo’s defenseman pinched at the wrong moment, and their forward coughed up the puck. I intercepted it at our blue line and suddenly there was nothing ahead of me but open ice.
Breakaway.
Adrenaline flooded my system as I accelerated, the crowd noise building with every stride. My stick felt light, the puck perfectly weighted, everything narrowing to this—me, the goalie, and sixty feet of open ice between us.
He came out to cut the angle. I could see him calculating, trying to read me. I dragged the puck to my forehand at the last second and went high shelf, catching the top corner just under the bar.
The red light blazed behind the net.
Goal.
Relief hit me so hard I almost couldn’t breathe. My second goal in two games, after months of zero-point games and watching my career circle the drain. The arena erupted—eighteen thousand people on their feet, the roar so loud I felt it in my bones. I threw my arms up and Jensen crashed into me from the side, nearly knocking me over. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about!” Kinnunen piled on.
I couldn’t stop grinning. The noise was overwhelming, beautiful, perfect.
Please let this be enough to keep me here.
Marco skated toward us from the blue line. When hereached the celebration, the guys parted just enough to let him in. His glove found my shoulder and squeezed once, firm and sure. Our eyes met through our face shields, and everything else fell away for just a second.
Pride. Joy. Relief. Everything we’d been carrying, reflected back at me in his dark eyes.
The crowd kept roaring. All of it for us.
We went into the intermission 1–0.
In the locker room, Coach kept it simple. “Good period. Stay disciplined. Keep the pressure on.”
The second period opened fast. Buffalo scored first—a deflection that Reid had no chance on. 1–1.
But we answered back three minutes later. Boucher won a faceoff in the offensive zone, got it back to Jensen. Jensen wound up for a shot, but instead of taking it, he sent a pass across to Marco. He one-timed it toward the net.
