“I do, actually.” I handed him his helmet. “Because I've seen you play, and I know what you can do. The body remembers, Soren. Trust it.”
The league office called back with approval five minutes before puck drop. Soren was legal. He was on the roster. He was actually doing this.
We took the ice for warm-ups and I watched him wobble slightly on his first few strides, getting used to the skates again. But muscle memory kicked in fast, and by his third lap he was moving more smoothly.
The crowd noticed the unfamiliar number on the ice and the murmur of confusion rippled through the stands. The announcers were scrambling to explain the emergency activation, the first time in league history this particular rule had been used.
Soren skated over to me during the last few minutes of warm-up.
“I can't believe you talked me into this,” he said.
“You're going to be great.”
“If I fuck this up?—”
“You won't.” I tapped my stick against his shin guards. “Just play. Don't think. Trust yourself.”
The anthem played, the starters lined up, and the puck dropped.
The first period was rough for Soren. He was tentative, overthinking every move, trying to remember positioning and reads he used to do on instinct. He took a bad penalty eight minutes in for holding, and I could see the frustration on his face as he skated to the box.
But he didn't quit. Didn't fold under the pressure. Just kept grinding, shift by shift, getting more comfortable.
The game stayed tight. The Raiders scored first, a deflection off Dmitri's skate that Saint had no chance on. We answered back six minutes later when Jace buried a rebound on the power play.
By the second period, Soren was finding his rhythm. The rust was burning off, the old instincts waking up. I watched him make a smart breakout pass, watched him get physical on the boards, watched him remember how to read the play.
“He's doing it,” Cole said during a line change.
“Told you,” I said.
The second period ended in a tie. The Raiders had tied it up on a lucky bounce, and the energy in the building was crackling with tension.
Third period. Everything on the line.
Both teams came out flying, trading chances, the pace insane. Saint made three highlight-reel saves and their goalie matched him. The clock ticked down and neither team could break through.
Five minutes left. Still tied.
I was on the ice for a defensive zone faceoff when I saw it—the tiniest hesitation in their defenseman's positioning. A gap that would exist for maybe two seconds if we won the draw clean.
I won the faceoff and sent the puck back to Dmitri. The play developed exactly like I'd visualized it. Our forwards pushed up ice, the Raiders defense shifted to track them, and that gap I'd seen opened up.
Soren was cutting through the neutral zone at exactly the right angle.
Time did a weird folding thing. I was seventeen again, lining up a championship shot. Soren was cutting toward the net with his stick ready. The pass was right there.
I sent it.
The puck hit his tape perfectly, and for one suspended moment everything hung in balance.
Soren didn't hesitate. He caught the pass in full stride, cut toward the net, and fired a wrist shot top shelf before the goalie could get across.
The lamp lit up.
The horn blared.
The arena fucking erupted.
