This was the big time, there was no questioning that. Jacob felt the weight of it the second his skates hit the surface for warm-ups—every shift of his weight sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through him, sharp and electric.
Focus.
Fight.
Kick ass.
The puck dropped, and the game turned brutal from the opening face-off.
The Titans came out swinging, forechecking like they were trying to bury the Enforcers before the first intermission. Jacob took his first big hit less than ninety seconds in: a Titans defenseman caught him against the boards with a clean but punishing shoulder check that rattled his teeth and left his ribs singing. He shook it off, kept his feet, and skated away before the ref could whistle anything.
“You good?” Connor asked as he skated to Jacob.
Jacob simply nodded. But he didn’t stay quiet long.
Midway through the first, Jacob danced through the neutral zone on a two-on-one rush. Alex fed him a perfect stretch pass; Jacob toe-dragged around the last back checker, cut inside, and ripped a wrist shot high glove side. The puck was ticketed for the top corner—until the Titans” goalie, a six-foot-five wall named Stahl, somehow got his blocker up in time.
The save was obscene: glove flash, paddle down, body square. It was the mind of save that would be replayed over and over on highlights reels and YouTube compilations.
Ultimately though, the puck pinged off the leather and stayed out.
The crowd erupted like they’d won the series already.
Jacob banged his stick against the glass in frustration, then skated back to the bench. Tane met his eyes for a split second—steady, reassuring—before the next shift jumped over the boards.
It didn’t get better.
The Titans scored on the counter less than two minutes later. A turnover at the blue line, a quick breakout, and their top-line center slipped behind the Enforcers defense for a clean breakaway. The puck went five-hole on their goalie.
1-0 Titans.
The second period was more of the same: grinding hits, blocked shots, whistles for every marginal call. Jacob absorbed another heavy check—this one from behind, borderline interference—near the end boards. He popped up fast, jaw set, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him limp.
But the hits were piling up.
Jacob’s shoulder ached from the earlier collision, his ribs throbbed, and every stride felt heavier than the last.
By the third period the score was 3-0 Titans.
The Enforcers had chances—good ones—but Stahl was playing out of his mind, and the Titans” defense was suffocating. Jacob’s line generated a partial break late in the frame; he carried the puck deep, faked a shot, then tried to saucer it to Tane cutting to the net. The pass was intercepted. The Titans cleared.
And the clock kept ticking.
With 1:47 left and the game already decided, frustration finally boiled over.
Jacob chased a loose puck into the corner. A Titans winger—big, bearded, mouthy—got there first and pinned him against the boards. The guy leaned in close, helmet to helmet.
“Run home to your Sugar Daddy, princess,” he muttered, low enough that only Jacob could hear. “Rivers can’t save you tonight.”
Something snapped.
Jacob shoved hard—two hands to the chest—then dropped his gloves and threw a wild right that caught the guy’s visor. The Titans player swung back. They grappled, helmets clacking, until the linesmen pried them apart.
The ref’s arm shot up immediately.
“Number seventeen, two minutes for roughing. Get to the box.”
Jacob skated to the penalty box under a cascade of boos and jeers. He slammed the door behind him, ripped off his helmet, and dropped onto the bench. From the glassed-in box he watched the final minute tick down: empty-net goal for the Titans at 0:32.
