And the Yeti players execute. No panic, no wasted stride. They take the zone, just the way they’re supposed to. We cycle low. We’re patient. We force them to chase. Force them to tire.
J.D. takes a shot from the point, and the rebound kicks wide, right where it should.
Lefevre gets another chance.
Then another.
I barely breathe.
This is what my system is supposed to look like. And it’s working. The average professional hockey team scores once for every ten shots on goal. We’ve had thirty-four shots this game. Good fucking attempts.
Their goalie is on fire tonight.
The Bears rush the other way, but it’s nothing. Angled wide. Our defense not letting anything into the middle. Volkov swallows the puck like he’s done all game—like he’s done a thousand times before.
We’re doing everything right. And that’s the cruel part.
Time stretches, those five minutes both flying by and standing still.
And suddenly there’s fifteen seconds left. The puck slides into the slot, and my pulse spikes so hard I almost gasp.
Thisis the moment.
J.D.’s shot releases—hard, clean, right toward his upper glove side. The place where he and the rest of the goalies are most likely to let a puck go by.
But not this time.
Their goalie makes a save he had no business making. The sound the crowd makes is animalistic. Complete chaos and outrage, though the puck is still alive.
Players scramble. Sticks collide. Skates tangle.
We’re going to sudden death.
But then—
“Puck!” the bench yells.
It’s not a blown coverage.
It’s not a lazy mistake.
It’s not somethinganyonecould’ve changed.
It’s a bounce.
The puck hits the boards wrong and kicks out into open ice. Straight to a Bears winger who is behind the play.
And physics, the constant asshole that it is, betrays the Yeti.
They can’t change their direction quite fast enough as the winger takes one stride and shoots his shot.
It’s ugly.
Desperate.
Unremarkable.
And it slides right into Volkov’s five hole.
