“Goalie goal!” Mercer is screaming.
I’m laughing, half buried under three teammates as the noise rolls through the arena.
Showcase weekend. And somehow our goalie just won the shootout.
As we finally break apart and skate back toward the bench, the realization hits.
We’re through.
Final on Sunday.
And if tonight felt big, tomorrow is going to be something else entirely.
27
ZANE
The bar is louder than it probably should be for a team that has another game tomorrow.
Not rowdy - no one’s stupid enough to celebrate properly the night before a final - but loud in that relieved, buzzing way.
The whole team is here except one.
Shaw.
Her “medical precaution” has conveniently kept her upstairs resting while the rest of us unwind for a couple of hours.
Honestly, she probably needs it.
Three games in two days would wreck anyone.
Mercer is retelling Chen’s shootout goal for the fourth time, using increasingly dramatic hand gestures to demonstrate the exact moment our goalie apparently became the most dangerous forward in the conference.
Chen, to his credit, is taking the attention with the same calm expression he always has.
“You should retire now,” Russo tells him. “Peak careermoment.”
Chen sips his water.
“Not if I have it my way.”
I shake my head and head toward the bar.
Tonight everyone’s being sensible. No shots, no chaos. Just food, a few soft drinks, and an early night before tomorrow.
I order a Coke and lean against the counter while the bartender pours it.
That’s when I hear my name.
“…Blake.”
The voice comes from a cluster of men sitting further down the bar.
I glance sideways without turning my head.
Dark jackets but not staff. They must be Scouts.
“Very impressive,” one of them says.
