Fast in that deliberate way he gets when something matters more than a regular-season game should.
And I know exactly why. Because Perth doesn’t just want this win, he wants control back. And none of us is giving him that.
The puck breaks loose near center ice, sliding clean across the neutral zone before I catch it on my blade. I cut left slightly ahead of Johnson’s reach, pushing forward with speed that feels almost effortless as the crowd rises around us in a wave of sound that builds with every stride I take toward their goal.
I hear Holt yelling something behind me. I don’t catch the words. I don’t need to. I already know the play. Perth reaches me first. Johnson closes in from the other side a second later. They slam into me at the same time.
The impact lands hard enough that it knocks the breath out of my lungs in a single sharp burst. My body folds forward before I even realize I’m dropping toward the ice, my stick scraping across the surface as the puck slides away from my control.
The arena explodes into boos immediately. Not scattered. Not uncertain. Loud. Unified. Angry.
I stay bent over for half a second longer than I want to. Then Zane’s beside me.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
I nod even though my chest is still catching up with my breathing.
“All good,” I manage. I force myself upright again and give him the same player smile I always give after a hit like that, because that’s what teammates do, we keep moving.
“Let’s do this,” he says.
I smirk.
We reset the play the way we’ve done a hundred times before. We let instinct carry us forward as the puck returns to our line and Zane cuts ahead with speed while I shift my position. I shift it just enough to block the Hawks’ defense from closing in on him too quickly.
Their goalie already knows what’s coming. He squares his stance early. Drops low. Waits. Zane shoots anyway. The puck hits the net clean. And the arena explodes.
I don’t even remember skating toward him before I jump him in celebration. Holt crashes into both of us a second later, hard enough to send all three of us sideways in a pile of sticks and laughter and noise while the scoreboard flashes above us.
“Legend!” Holt shouts.
For a moment, everything feels easy again. Like, rivalry games are still just games. Like the night isn’t carrying anything heavier underneath it.
The rest of the first half shifts exactly the way Coach wants it to. The Hawks grow more aggressive with every shift while we tighten defensively around our zone, forcing them wide, forcing them slow, forcing them frustrated as their passes lose precision and their tempo starts slipping.
Perth gets impatient. I can see it in the way he skates. In the way he hits. In the way he stops looking at the puck and starts looking at me instead.
In the locker room during intermission, Coach’s voice cuts through the noise immediately.
“They are going to come for you,” he says, pointing directly at Zane.
His head is shining. That’s how we know he’s serious.
“They will go for Miller first. Protect Miller and pass to Saxon. Blake, make sure you’re ready.”
“We got you,” I tell Zane automatically.
He nods once. We both know what that means. They’re not playing hockey anymore. They’re playing strategy.
When the second half begins, the arena feels louder than before. The crowd is jumping hard enough that the vibration runs through the boards and into the ice beneath our skates, turning every shift into something heavier than it should be.
The puck comes to Zane early. I see Perth and Johnson closing on him immediately.
He sends the pass to me exactly the way we planned. And that’s when I see the other two Hawks moving behind me. Too fast. Too coordinated. Too deliberate.
All four of them collapse on me at once. The hit lands wrong. Not just hard. Wrong.
Something shifts in my shoulder before I even hit the ice. A sharp, tearing sensation shoots down my arm so suddenly that the sound that comes out of me isn’t controlled at all.
