Third period started and Coach sent out subs in waves, cycling through pairs I’d only skated with in practice drills. Grayson stayed on the right side, still wearing the captain’s “C,” still the only first-line regular out there with us.
He met me in the middle of the zone as the puck dropped for the faceoff in our end. The new center on Seattle won it back clean.
“Pressure him,” Grayson said, skating into a sprint up the right.
I closed the gap, angling my body to take away the pass lane instead of chasing the puck. Their winger tried to cut inside, but I reached with my stick, knocked it free, and pushed it toward Grayson along the boards.
“Good stick,” he called.
He carried it up ice to draw away defenders, then slid it back to me at the blue. I crossed the line with speed, dropped the puck to our trailing defenseman, then cut straight to the net. The return pass came through the slot as intended, and I redirected it with my blade toward the far post.
The goalie tracked it and sealed the pad.
No rebound.
“Stay patient,” Seth said as we regrouped in the corner.
Seattle tried to break out, but our forecheck forced a turnover near the red line. Grayson scooped it and pushed ahead.
“Middle!” he shouted.
I met him between the circles, took the pass, and shifted left to open his lane. He fired from the wing. The puck hit traffic and bounced out. I recovered it, spun away from pressure, and sent a quick pass to our defenseman joining the rush.
He one-timed it.
The puck slid under the goalie’s glove. 10 to 1.
Grayson skated by and tapped my stick. “That’s it. Keep feeding. You’re doing great.”
It didn’t feel so great. Where Surge were firing goals in quick succession before, it now felt slow and haphazard. If something went our way, it felt like an accident instead of intentional.
Next shift, Seattle tried to answer with a rush of their own. Their winger carried through center and made to thread a pass across the slot. I anticipated it, stepped into the lane, and intercepted.
“Turn!” someone from our bench yelled.
I moved up ice with Grayson flanking me. Two defenders closed in. I faked a shot, dragged the puck across, and slipped it back to Grayson along the boards. He cut toward the net and shot from an angle so tight it made me wince. The rebound kicked out into the crease.
“Santos!”
Whether the cry came from God or Coach, my body reacted the same. I was the closest to the rebound, scrambled after the puck, and poked it home before the goalie could smother it.
11 to 1.
The crowd responded with a roar so loud it shook the glass.
From the bench, one of our forwards called out, “That’s it, Santos. You’re on fire.”
Coach stood near the end of the boards, arms folded, watching the matchup develop. “Keep the puck moving, but don’t force it.”
Seattle tried to match our pace, but something wasn’t working out for them tonight. Missed passes, lackluster defense, and way too much space for us to take over in the center.
Grayson took advantage. He carried wide, then cut back to hand it off to me at the top of the circle. I saw the lane open before it fully formed, and shot low through a screen. The puck deflected off a defender’s skate and changed direction enough to beat the goalie.
12 to 1.
“Nice read.” Grayson didn’t make too big a deal of it and I played it cool.
Inside I was jumping up and down over my second goal of the night, and my captain’s acknowledgement.
