Midway through the first, we broke through. I won the draw back to Tucker, who slid it across to the weak side. I cut toward the net instead of hanging high, dragging their center with me. Grayson drifted into the space I vacated and one-timed the return pass low blocker side.
The red light flared.
He skated past me with a grin and tapped the side of my helmet. “That lane opened because you moved.”
I wanted to say it was just positioning, that anyone would’ve done it, but the goal felt like more than a stat. It felt like proof the line worked.
On the bench, Mason clapped his gloves once against his stick in acknowledgment. No smile. No comment.
The second period tightened up. Vancouver adjusted, stacking the blue line and forcing us to dump and chase. I tried to carry it in once and got stripped clean at the line, turning the puck over and giving them an odd-man rush the other way.
As I hustled back, Mason’s voice cut across the ice from his own backcheck. “Middle, Aiden.”
I cut toward the slot just in time to tie up their trailing forward. The shot came from the outside and our goalie steered it to the corner.
When we changed, Mason skated by me and gave a short nod. Acknowledgment that I’d recovered, nothing more.
“North-south,” Grayson muttered as he took a seat. “They’re waiting for you to get fancy.”
“I won’t,” I said, though part of me wanted to prove I could.
The game stayed close. We went up two to one on a power play goal from the first line. Mason parked himself at the top of the crease and redirected a point shot through traffic. He didn’t celebrate big. He circled once and tapped the passer’s stick.
When he came off, Coach grabbed his shoulder. “That’s how it’s done.”
Mason nodded and drank from his bottle, water running down his chin.
Late in the third, Vancouver tied it off a scramble in front. I was on the ice when it happened, stuck in a battle along the wall while the puck slid out front. By the time I turned, it was behind our goalie.
I skated to the bench with my jaw tight, replaying it.
“That’s not on you,” Grayson said as he stood. “Win the next one.”
The next one came with under five minutes left. Offensive zone draw. Tie game.
I bent low, focused on the puck in the ref’s hand instead of the noise around us. When it hit the ice, I snapped it back clean to Cash Money, and cut immediately toward the right circle. He faked a shot and slid it to me instead.
I had a lane, but their defenseman stepped up. Instead of forcing it, I feathered a pass through his skates to Landon as he crashed in from the back door.
He buried it. Goal.
The arena erupted. Landon turned and pointed his stick at me before getting mobbed.
As we reset for the final shift, Mason caught my eye for the first time all night. He didn’t smile, but he held my gaze long enough to register the assist.
“Good read,” he said when we lined up for the defensive draw.
It wasn’t an apology, but I was willing to take it for the respectful olive branch it was meant to be. We didn’t have to be best friends to be on the same team, playing toward the same goal. These guys were never my friends, so it was easy for me to take this as a win and move on.
We locked it down after that, clearing pucks instead of chasing them. Short shifts. Hard stops. When the horn sounded, I stayed on the ice a beat longer than usual, chest rising and falling, sweat running into my collar.
We’d won again, but it hadn’t come easy, and I felt every shift in my legs.
As we lined up to tap gloves with Vancouver, Mason skated ahead of me. He reached the end of the line and turned toward our bench.
On the way off the ice, Grayson nudged my shoulder with his. “Second line looks fine to me.”
I let out a tired laugh. “We’ll see what tomorrow says.”
