I skate past the crease and tap his pad with my stick.
“Nice one.”
Miles shrugs. “Try not to make it a habit.”
Fair.
The ref waves us toward the faceoff circle and I glide over beside Russo. He leans down slightly, adjusting his grip on the stick, his body tense the way it always is when he’s thinking five plays ahead.
“You rushed that shot,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” I mutter.
He’s completely right.
I’d seen the opening and jumped on it too fast, like the goal would disappear if I waited half a second longer. That kind of impatience gets punished in real games.
Across the rink, I glance toward the bench.
Coach Calloway stands exactly where he always does, one hand gripping the top of the boards, eyes locked on the ice like he’s trying to solve a puzzle no one else can see yet. Even from here I can tell he’s reading the same thing I am.
All of the pieces are right.
The execution isn’t.
It’s not panic yet, but it’s getting close.
The puck drops and Russo wins the draw cleanly back to thedefense.
For about three seconds everything looks the way it should. The breakout forms properly, the passes land tape to tape, and the whole play opens up in front of me exactly the way we practiced it a hundred times in September.
Then their winger steps into the lane and suddenly the puck is going the other way again.
I turn hard and chase.
The noise in the arena swells as the play rushes toward our end, blades carving deep lines into the ice as we scramble to recover.
First game of the season.
And somehow, it’s already slipping through our fingers.
LEONORA
They’re losing.
It’s not disastrous yet, but it’s wrong in the quiet, creeping way that tells me exactly where this game is heading.
Three-one. Midway through the third.
The Giants are pushing harder now, which almost makes it worse. Desperation sharpens the speed but blunts the judgment, and I can see it happening shift by shift - the rushed passes and the way everyone tries to fix the game with one big heroic play instead of the small, patient ones that actually win hockey games.
Dad used to call it panic hockey.
The puck moves along the boards and ends up on Zane Blake’s stick again.
The crowd reacts instantly, a ripple of excitement movingthrough the stands like everyone senses the same thing at once. He’s the player they believe can turn a game on its head.
I watch intently.
