With four minutes left, Tolrek made a read that shouldn’t have been impossible.
Their forward drove toward our zone, cutting through the neutral zone with the kind of confidence that came from knowing he’d identified a gap in our coverage. Tolrek tracked him, reading not just where the forward was but where the play would develop three seconds from now.
I’d watched him do this a hundred times now. More. Every game, practice, and time he stepped onto ice. But this was different. This was the read I’d shown him in that first tape session, the one where I’d pulled footage from earlier seasons and told him,This is not who you were. This is who you still are.
He’d believed me.
Now twenty thousand people were watching him prove it.
He adjusted his position before the forward committed to the lane, cutting off the passing option and forcing the play wide. When the forward tried to go through him anyway, Tolrek absorbed the hit and stripped the puck in one motion.
The sequence happened fast enough that most people in the arena probably didn’t register how good the read had been.
I’d been watching Tolrek long enough to see how extraordinary he was.
He sent the puck up ice to our winger who drove into their zone. Two passes later, Crim buried it in the back of their net.
The arena exploded.
I sat in the press box with my hands frozen over the keyboard, watching Tolrek skate back to the bench while twenty thousand people celebrated around him.
He was playing the best hockey of his career, and I got to watch it happen every night.
The final two minutes felt like hours. Their team pushed hard, pulling their goalie for an extra attacker and throwing everything they had at our net. But our defensive structure held, and the buzzer sounded. The arena went absolutely feral.
We’d clinched a playoff spot.
Players poured onto the ice, converging in celebration. Tolrek stood near the bench, his helmet off, grinning wide. My breath caught. Damn, he was gorgeous when he smiled.
Brashe grabbed him in a hug that turned into a headlock. Crim skated over and joined the pile. Other players followed until Tolrek disappeared under at least seven orcs who were all trying to celebrate on top of him at the same time.
My father stood behind the bench, smiling.
I packed up my gear and headed down to ice level, following the route I’d walked hundreds of times. Media and staff crowded the lower area, all riding the energy of a win that mattered.
The tunnel opened onto the ice, and I stopped at the edge.
My father stood near center ice, surrounded by players and assistant coaches. Media had already started filtering onto the ice for post-game interviews. Cameras were flashing everywhere, capturing the moment from every angle.
Across the ice, Tolrek looked up, his gaze finding me.
The noise around us didn’t quiet, but it stopped mattering.
My father noticed where Tolrek was looking and found me standing at the edge of the ice. He rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling.
Stepping onto the ice in shoes was exactly as treacherous as it sounded. I took careful steps, my arms out for balance, probably looking ridiculous but not caring enough to stop.
Tolrek met me halfway, his cheeks flushed, his chest still heaving from the final shift. Sweat dampened his hairline.
He looked perfect.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You saw that positioning sequence in the third period?”
“I did. We’re reviewing it tomorrow.”
