The bench erupted behind us, and I skated toward Benny with my glove raised for the celly. He crashed into me hard enough to knock us both sideways, laughing like an idiot, and the rest of the line piled on before Coach's voice cut through the noise telling us to get our asses back to the bench.
“That's how we fucking start!” Finn shouted as we cycled off, his grin wide enough to split his face. “Cap's on fire tonight!”
“Cap's been on fire all week,” Cole added from further down the bench, and there was an edge to his voice that said he knew exactly what he was implying. “Wonder what changed.”
I shot him a look that should have shut him up, but the damage was already done. The entire bench was grinning now, and I could see the chirping coming before it even started.
“Someone definitely got laid,” Tate said, not bothering to lower his voice. “Look at him. That's post-sex confidence right there.”
“I didn't get laid,” I said flatly, dropping onto the bench and grabbing my water bottle. “I got sleep. Revolutionary concept, you should try it.”
“Sleep doesn't make you play like that,” Mason countered, leaning back against the boards with his arms crossed. “That's the kind of energy you get from?—”
“Finishing a conversation I should have had years ago,” I interrupted him. “Drop it.”
The bench went quiet for about three seconds, which was a miracle in itself, and then Finn ruined it by saying, “So you had emotional closure and now you're playing like a god. That's somehow worse than getting laid.”
I couldn't help it. I laughed, and the sound came out rough and genuine and surprised the hell out of me. “You're all idiots.”
“Yeah, but we're your idiots,” Benny said, and he wasn't wrong.
The game stayed tight and mean in the best possible way. The Alberta team was fast, physical, and mouthy as hell, the kind of squad that played right up to the edge of dirty without quite crossing it. Their captain was a brick wall of a defenseman who'd been targeting our top line all night, and by the second period the chirping had escalated into an art form.
“Nice pass, grandpa!” one of their wingers shouted at Cole after he'd turned the puck over in the neutral zone. “You need glasses or just losing your edge?”
“I'm twenty-eight, you fucking child,” Cole fired back without missing a beat. “Come talk to me when you hit puberty.”
The ref didn't even bother blowing the whistle. This was exhibition hockey, and as long as nobody threw a punch, the shit talk was part of the entertainment.
I lined up for the next face-off and locked eyes with their center, a cocky kid who'd been running his mouth since the opening puck drop. He grinned at me like we were best friends instead of opponents, and I knew exactly what was coming.
“Heard your playoff start got delayed,” he said, loud enough for half the ice to hear. “That suck, or you guys just scared?”
“We're rested,” I shot back, settling into my stance. “You're about to be tired.”
I won the draw, sent it back to Dmitri, and drove hard toward their net. The kid tried to follow me, but I'd already read where the play was going and he hadn't. By the time he caught up, I was screening their goalie while Dmitri wound up from the point. The shot came through heavy and low, and I tipped it just enough to change the angle before it beat the goalie clean.
Two to nil.
The bench went absolutely feral behind me, and I skated back toward our end with the Alberta center glaring at me like I'd personally insulted his entire bloodline.
“Still scared?” I asked as I skated past him, and his response was creative enough that I almost respected it.
The rest of the period played out fast and physical, both teams trading chances and hits in equal measure. Their coach was shouting instructions that mostly involved variations of “hit the big guys harder,” and our bench was shouting back encouragement that mostly involved variations of “don't let them hit you.” By the time the buzzer sounded for the second intermission, we were up three to one and I was exhausted in the best possible way.
Coach didn't say much during the break. He didn't need to. We were playing well, staying disciplined, and executing thesystems exactly the way he'd drilled into us all season. Jace pulled me aside near the end of the intermission and handed me a water bottle with a look that said he'd been tracking my ice time and didn't love the numbers.
“You're playing a lot of minutes for an exhibition,” he said quietly. “Coach knows you're locked in, but don't burn yourself out before playoffs actually start.”
“Kinda have to.”
“You're playing like you've got a point to prove.”
“Maybe I do.” I took a long drink and handed the bottle back to him. “I feel good, Jace. Best I've felt in weeks. Let me ride it.”
He studied me for a second, and I could see him weighing whether to push harder or let it go. Finally, he nodded. “Just pace yourself. We need you sharp when it counts.”
The third period was a war. Alberta came out flying, clearly pissed about being down by two, and they scored forty seconds in on a deflection that beat Saint clean. The goal woke up their entire bench, and suddenly the game felt a lot less comfortable than it had five minutes ago.
