Xaden wins it, sending it back to the point, then drives straight to the net like a missile. The puck moves aroundthe zone in crisp, perfect passes. Somerset's penalty kill is scrambling, trying to cover everyone at once.
Then the puck comes to Cas at the point. He winds up like he's going to shoot but instead passes it to Xaden in the slot.
Time seems to slow down.
I can see it all unfolding like I'm watching in slow motion, Xaden receiving the pass, the goalie setting his position, the defenders trying to close the gap.
Xaden releases the shot.
It's perfect.
The puck rockets past the goalie's outstretched glove and buries itself in the back of the net.
3-3.
The building loses its absolute mind.
People are screaming, jumping and hugging strangers. Our section is pure chaos. Even Harper is on her feet yelling.
But I can't move.
Can't breathe.
Because Xaden isn't celebrating.
He's just standing there on the ice, and he's looking directly at me.
The intensity in his gaze, even from this distance, even through his helmet, hits me like a physical force.
The clock restarts. Two minutes left.
Both teams are exhausted, you can see it in the way they're skating, desperation in every movement.
Overtime feels inevitable.
But Xaden hasn't left the ice. He should be gassed, should be finished, but he keeps going like he's fueled by something beyond human endurance.
One minute.
Somerset has possession, making one final desperate push for the go-ahead goal. They're in our zone, cycling the puck, looking for an opening.
Our defense holds. Barely.
One of our guys clears the puck and Xaden picks it up in our own zone.
Thirty seconds.
He takes off, two Somerset players chasing him but he's faster. Always faster.
He crosses their blue line with the defense collapsing on him. Too many bodies. He can't possibly get a shot off?—
But then I see it. See what he sees.
Cas is streaking down the wing, completely wide open.
Twenty seconds.
Xaden makes the pass, through two sets of legs, across the ice, perfectly onto Cas's tape.
