Three minutes left. They’re throwing everything at us - forechecking like maniacs, finishing every check, running anyone who touches the puck. The refs have lost control completely.
But we’re surviving.
Barely.
The puck goes into their zone with ninety seconds left. If we can keep it there, game over.
Russo carries it over the line. I follow, looking for the pass.
Then I see Shaw cutting toward the boards.
Their defenceman - the same one who’s been headhunting all game - is already moving toward him.
But Shaw sees it coming.
He pivots, just like he’s been doing all period, angling his body to let the hit glance off-
Except this time, the defenceman’s stick comes up.
It’s not a slash. It’s not even a penalty, really. Just a wild, desperate swing as the guy realizes he’s about to miss his hitcompletely.
The blade catches Shaw high - under the collarbone. The shoulder pads don’t protect that spot.
For a second, nothing happens.
Shaw keeps skating for half a stride.
Then he crumples.
The whistle blows.
I don’t remember skating over. I just… arrive.
Shaw is on the ice, lying on his side. He’s not moving the way someone moves when they’re hurt but okay. He’s just… down.
Then I see the blood.
It’s spreading fast - too fast - soaking into his jersey, dripping onto the ice. Red against white. Growing.
“TARA!”
Someone’s yelling. It might be me.
The trainers are already coming. Tara sprints across the ice.
I try to get closer.
Russo’s arm catches me across the chest.
“Let them work.”
“He needs-”
“I know. Let them work.”
I stand there. Frozen. Watching.
Tara drops beside Shaw. Her gloves are off, her hands pressing against his collarbone, against that spreading stain. She’s talking - I can see her mouth moving - but I can’t hear anything over the roaring in my ears.
