Twenty minutes left.
Third period started with Dallas pressing hard, desperate to pull the game back within reach. That lasted about forty seconds.
Grayson intercepted a pass in the neutral zone and turned up ice with me pacing the middle lane. Landon streaked down the right side, one hand on his stick while he tapped the blade against the ice to call for it. He caught it in stride, and stepped over the blue line with a defender angling in front of him. Most players would’ve dumped it deep or fired a safe shot from the boards.
But most players weren’t Landon fucking Cross.
He slid the puck between his skates, hopped over a reaching stick, and kicked it forward again in one smooth motion beforesettling it back onto his blade. The defenseman twisted around trying to recover position while Landon carried the puck behind the net. Instead of circling out the other side, he banked it off the back boards to himself, and burst toward the crease.
The goalie dropped.
Landon flicked the puck high, just under the bar.
The net snapped, and it sent the crowd into outer space.
He coasted toward the corner thumping his chest, while the red light strobed behind him.
I caught up first and slammed into his shoulder. “What the hell was that?”
“Creative expression.” He flashed a wicked grin.
Grayson arrived a second later and wrapped an arm around both of us before steering us toward the bench. “Landon’s gonna give me a heart attack before we make playoffs.”
The scoreboard rolled five to two. Dallas looked stunned.
The next few shifts turned into a siege.
Every time they tried to push through center ice, Tucker and Cash shoved them wide. Hunter swallowed the few shots that reached him, batting rebounds into the corners before their forwards could reach them.
When we jumped over the boards again, the building buzzed with anticipation.
Grayson snagged a loose puck near our blue line and sent it forward. “Go!”
I drove through the neutral zone while Landon cut behind me, dragging a defender out of the lane. Two Dallas players closed in before I even reached the circles. The first lifted my stick, and the second drove into my shoulder. The puck slipped loose.
That was my cue to chase it down along the boards, jam my body between them, and from there I kicked it forward with my skate while their sticks clawed at it. I shoved the puck ahead and followed it into the crease.
The goalie dropped again, pad sliding across the ice to block the angle.
I reached past him, stretched my stick along the ice, and forced the puck through the gap before a defenseman hauled me backward.
The goal light flashed. The roar from the stands rolled down over the ice.
I lay there for a beat while Grayson grabbed my arm and hauled me upright.
“Hell of a fight,” he said.
Tucker crashed into us so hard it shoved my helmet sideways. “That’s what I like to call a dirty goal.”
“Still counts,” I said.
Six to two.
Dallas tried to rally after that, throwing everything forward. Their defense pinched deeper in the zone, looking for a break that never came. Hunter turned aside a heavy shot from the left circle and kicked the rebound wide. Cash cleared the puck off the glass.
From there, it was easy. I picked it up near center ice with a defenseman racing toward me. The crowd had started something by then.
“Santos! Santos!” The chant echoed through the arena while I crossed the blue line.
