Viktor drops to one knee to stop a shot midway through the third and immediately pounds his fist against the ice when he clears it out of danger.
“Let’s fucking go!”
The bench roars as I reset in the crease and drag in another breath.
One goal. That’s all it takes to ruin it.
Seattle throws everything they have at us during the final five minutes. Bodies pile in front of my net. Sticks jam against my pads. Somebody crashes into me after a rebound scramble, and Knight nearly commits homicide defending the crease afterward.
“Touch him again,” Knight snarls, “and I’ll bury you.”
Something about that hits me strangely hard. Nobody protected my crease growing up. You were expected to handle your own shit.
The crowd noise turns into one solid wall of sound during the final minute after Seattle pulls their goalie for the extra attacker. The pressure ramps up immediately. The puck cycles fast around the zone before a cross-ice pass finds their sniper wide open in the left circle, and he absolutely hammers a shot top shelf through traffic.
I don’t even think.
My glove flashes out on pure instinct, and suddenly the puck is sitting clean in my hand instead of behind me in the net.
The arena completely loses its mind.
Honestly, I feel a little insane, too, after that one.
Bowen skates past the crease screaming, “BRICK WALL! BRICK FUCKING WALL!” while I try unsuccessfully to stop grinning inside the mask. Around me, the boys start throwing themselves in front of everything Seattle sends toward the net, determined to protect the shutout now that we’re this close.
The final seconds drain off the clock in a blur of noise, bodies, and blocked shots until the buzzer finally sounds.
And then they’re all over me at once. Laughing, shouting, and grabbing my helmet and shoulders. This win belongs to every single one of us instead of just me.
The entire team swarms me in the crease, shouting and grabbing at my helmet while sticks bang against the ice around us. Tristan nearly tackles me backward. Camden wraps an arm around my shoulders hard enough to rattle my mask. “Absolute psychopath tonight!”
“Holy shit, Rourke!”
Viktor gets to me last. He grabs the sides of my helmet and pulls me into a hard hug before thumping the top of my mask twice. “Told you it was your night.”
Something hot catches unexpectedly behind my ribs.
Not because of the shutout. But because this feels like home again. Real enough to make my chest ache anyway.
* * *
“Damn, dude, you crushed it out there!” Viktor jostles me with both arms. “Looks like you got your game back.”
“And you didn’t punch anyone in the face!” Knight offers me two thumbs up. “Gold star.”
Viktor slings one arm around my neck and half-drags me toward the showers. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“I mean, hedidpunch a guy earlier this season, so… yes. It was sincere. I’m being complimentary!” Knight gives a series of fervent little nods.
Usually, this is the part where Viktor would goad Knight, and they’d tussle, and everyone would move on and stop acknowledging me. I’m taken aback when Viktor taps his free hand to my chest again, bringing the conversation back to me. “Ignore him, Rourke. He thinks he’s funny. Seriously, though, good game. That last block wasprimo.No notes.” He pinches his fingers together and kisses the air.
Bowen bumps into my other shoulder. “Yeah, Rourke, you were a brick wall tonight. I think that’s the best I’ve ever seen you play.”
“Really?” I can’t help the squeak that escapes.
“Definitely. You’ve had good games in the past, but this was a nonstop save-a-thon.” He rubs his knuckles against the back of my head. “And you didn’t let their chirping get to you. You were untouchable.”
“Oh.” I dip my head and smile, only belatedly remembering to add, “Thanks.”
