But the final - that’s the one everyone wants.
That’s where the attention really lands.
Across the rink the Wolves are already skating through their drills. They’re a big team. Physical.
I watch one of their defencemen throw a heavy check into theboards during a drill and feel a small knot form in my stomach for Shaw.
He’s good at avoiding contact - he’s quick and smart with the puck - but the Wolves have a way of turning games into something rougher than they need to be.
And Shaw’s not exactly built like Mercer or Barrett. He’s not built like any of us, really.
But he doesn’t seem to be showing any nerves.
Maybe I’m worrying for nothing.
Still.
I tap my stick against the ice again and push off toward the faceoff circle.
First seed or not - if we want to make that final on Sunday, we’re going to have to win some games.
LEONORA
The Wolves are the dirtiest team I’ve ever played against.
I know that ten seconds into my first shift.
Their right wing - a massive guy with dead eyes and a missing tooth - lines me up along the boards before I even touch the puck. His shoulder drives into my ribs so hard I feel it in my teeth.
No whistle.
I push myself up and chase the play, already knowing this game is going to be different.
The first period is a war.
Every time the puck comes near me, someone’s there. Not to play the puck - to play me. Shoulders into my chest. Sticks between my skates. Gloves in my face after the whistle.
The refs aren’t calling it.
Or maybe they just aren’t seeing it. The Wolves are good at making it look like hockey. Just hard, physical play. Nothing flagrant or obvious.
Except I’m the one getting hit.
Every. Single. Shift.
Midway through the period, I pick up the puck along the boards in the neutral zone. I see the opening - a lane to Russo breaking through the center.
Before I can pass, their defenceman is there.
He doesn’t go for the puck.
He goes for me.
His shoulder catches me square in the chest and I’m airborne for half a second before the ice comes up to meet me. My helmet cracks against the surface. The puck skitters away.
I lie there staring at the rafters, trying to remember how to breathe.
The ref’s hand stays down.
