The crowd was so loud I could barely hear myself think.
With five minutes left, I took a hit along the boards that rattled my teeth and left me gasping for breath. It was worth it. I’d drawn a penalty, the first of the game.
We didn’t convert on the power play, but we kept pressing.
The clock ticked down.
Three minutes.
Two.
One.
Fifty seconds left.
Still tied.
Coach called a timeout and drew up a play. It was simple and direct: get the puck to Erik at the point, crash the net, and put bodies in front of the goalie.
Create chaos and capitalize.
“Shaw,” Coach said, pointing at me. “You’re the trigger. Erik gets you the puck, you bury it. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
We lined up for the face-off in their zone.
I won it clean, kicking it back to Erik.
He held, surveyed, waited for the traffic to develop in front of the net.
I found my spot.
Stick on the ice.
Ready.
Erik’s pass was perfect.
Tape to tape, right on my blade.
I didn’t think.
Didn’t hesitate.
Just loaded and let it fly.
The puck left my stick, threaded through a maze of bodies, and found the top corner of the net with 3.7 seconds left on the clock.
The red light spun.
The horn blared.
And the arena exploded.
I don’t remember much of what happened next. Bodies piled on top of me, gloves rained down on my helmet, and the roar of the crowd was so loud I thought the ice might crack.
We’d won.
