***
The anthem pulled me in on the second verse the way it always did.
I held my breath through the last eight bars, let it out at the cymbal crash, and dropped into my stance. Our home crowd was loud. The nineteen thousand-plus sold-out crowd knew what the game meant.
The puck dropped.
Nashville came out structured and focused, which meant they were immediately dangerous. A team that panicked was readable. A team that arrived with a plan and the composure to execute it required more of me from the opening face off.
Their first line cycled deep in our zone for ninety seconds before Rook stepped up and took the puck off their winger's stick at the half wall. He moved it to Cross without looking.
Their first shot came at four minutes. It was from the right circle, low and aimed at the post. The puck hit my pad and went directly to Holt in the corner.
Their second line was faster than their first and less patient. They wanted to generate chaos in transition and feed off whatever came loose in front of me. I tracked through two screens in the neutral zone and had the shot read before they crossed our blue line. It came in hard, and I caught it clean at chest height.
The first period ended scoreless.
Kieran scored eleven minutes into the second.
It wasn't a spectacular goal. It was a correct one. Cross won a draw at the left circle, moved the puck back to the point, and Kieran came off the weak side on a route he'd been running since October. The defenseman was a half-step late.
Our bench rattled sticks against the boards as the crowd roared. I tapped my left pad once with the blocker and moved back to the top of the paint.
Their response came in the last minutes of the second; three quick shots, all managed. The third was the closest, a deflection that changed direction off a shin pad and came at me low and late.
They finally scored a goal at nine minutes into the third.
The shot came through two bodies stacked in front of me. I tracked it into the traffic and then lost it for three frames. Three frames were enough.
I retrieved the puck from the back of the net and handed it to the linesman without looking at the scoreboard. I knew the score. Two-one. I knew the time. I knew what we had to do.
I set my edges and waited for the face off. They pulled their goalie with two minutes left.
It was six skaters against our five. Their first shot with the extra attacker came from the point, hard, through a screen Crosshadn't fully cleared. I picked it up late off the shooter's blade and adjusted half a step right. It hit the inside of my pad and deflected wide.
Rook covered the corner before anyone else reached it.
Their second chance came off a turnover at our blue line. Two forwards got behind our defense for a half-second before Holt closed the gap. The pass came cross-ice, and the shot followed immediately.
I was already in motion.
The puck caught the heel of my glove, and I closed on it before it could drop. The whistle sounded. I held it against my chest and felt my own heartbeat through the leather.
Thirty seconds.
Cross won the face off. The puck went deep. Nashville burned their timeout.
Twenty-two seconds.
The final face off went to their center. It bounced loose. Three players converged along the near wall. It came out to their point man, who wound up hard from the top of the zone.
I tracked it through everything: the screen, traffic, and the noise from the crowd and bench. I set my angle and let it come to me.
It hit my chest pad and dropped straight down. I covered it with my blocker before it touched the paint.
The horn sounded. 2-1. We were in the playoffs.
The locker room erupted in noise and champagne.
