The circle tightens. Sweat drips off helmets. Chests heave. Eight minutes glows red on the clock above us.
“We are down one. That is it. One goal,” I say, steady and sharp. “I don’t need heroics. What I need is execution.”
I jab a finger at the whiteboard my assistant coach Don holds. “We get the puck deep. Defence, you keep it alive at the blue line. No blind clears. No hope plays.”
I look straight at Crawford. “Austin, you want to talk shit? You earn it. I want the puck on your stick. Every chance we get.”
Then I sweep my gaze across the rest of the line. “You two feed him. Low to high. Net front, I want traffic. I want their goalie guessing. Tips. Rebounds. Ugly ones count the same.”
I tap the board again. “If you do not have a lane, you move your goddamn feet until you do. If you lose the puck, you get it back. We roll fast lines, keep the pressure on, and we do not let them breathe.”
I straighten up. “Eight minutes is a lifetime. We tie this game and then we win it.”
I pause, let it sink in.
“Now, go get me one.”
I see it the second the whistle blows. The shift in their posture. The way their shoulders square and their skates dig in. They wanted it before. Now they fucking need it.
Michaels takes control of the puck and snaps it up to Watts. Florida collapses into their defensive shell, sticks out, lanes clogged. Noah sells the drive just long enough to pull them toward him, then slips the puck to Austin.
That is all he needs.
He looks for daylight. Does not find it. So he makes his own. He cuts inside, skates churning, the puck glued to his stick as he carves through two defenders. A third reaches. Misses. Austin dekes the goalie out of his crease and buries it.
The red light flashes.
The building groans.
I shake my head and do something I almost never do during a game.
I smile.
Austin disappears under a swarm of gloves and arms. Helmets knock together. Someone pounds him on the back hard enough to rattle teeth. When he finally breaks free, he skates past our bench and lifts one gloved finger in the air.
I nod once at the cocky little shit.
One more, kid.
With just over five minutes left, we win the faceoff clean. The energy on the ice has changed completely. Florida is breathing heavy now. Legs slower. Reactions half a beat late. My guys smell it and they press harder.
We are going to win this fucking game.One more goal. One more win. One more step closer to the Cup.
Will Oliver battles along the boards in our zone. He digsthe puck free and sends it up to Alexei Pavlov. The man is nearly my age and somehow still skating like his knees are made of steel. Pavlov drives the zone, eyes up, searching. He tries to force a lane to the net. Gets shut down. Without hesitation, he dishes it to Austin.
Florida panics.
Their defence surges, all focus locked on our top scorer. One defender steps up. Another comes hard from behind. Sticks clash. Skates tangle. The puck skitters for a split second and then Austin pulls it back in.
It is mayhem.
The trailing defender tries to untangle himself from the mess, scrambling to regain balance. He pitches forward, off angle, out of control. His skate blade comes down hard.
Right into the back of Austin’s lower right calf.
It’s like watching my own injury happen again. Except this time there is no grainy, pre-4K replay footage softened by distance and bad angles. This is sharp and immediate and unfolding in real time, a nightmare I cannot look away from.
My brain scrambles to make sense of the scene. The Florida defensemen have pushed themselves back to their skates, already resetting, but Austin is still face down on the ice. Motionless. The seconds stretch and thicken. I watch Will charge up the ice. He is known for his size, not his temper, but Austin is one of his closest friends on this team. The shove comes hard and violent, a full body check of rage and frustration.
