He ignored me, losing the puck to a heavy Jets defenseman. They broke the other way, a three-on-two rush that caught our defense flat-footed. I back-checked until my lungs burned, but the lack of communication on the transition was a canyon. A quick cross-ice pass, a one-timer, and the puck was a black blur hitting the back of our net.
1-0, Winnipeg.
"Great work, Landry," Cash spat as we skated back toward the center. "Try being where the play actually is next time."
"I was where the play should have been if you two weren't playing hero puck," I retorted.
The ice felt a mile wide. We had the talent to bury the Jets, but right now, Mason and Cash were treating me like an imposter in a Surge jersey. It wasn’t long before it infected Grayson and Tucker too. Every time I moved to support, they moved away. Whenever I called for the puck, they looked for a harder, more dangerous option. It was a sticky, disjointed mess, and as the clock ticked down on the first period, the scoreline was the only thing telling the truth.
The second period was a car crash in slow motion. When I touched the puck, the air on the ice curdled. Landon came back on for Grayson, and was intentionally overshooting my lead passes. Mason played a solo game, trying to weave through three Jets defenders while I stood wide open in the high slot. We were down 2-0, and the home crowd was beginning to turn, the rhythmic thumping of the boards replaced by the restless low drone of a disappointed city.
When the whistle blew for a puck out of play, I didn't head for the bench. I skated straight to the center circle and raised my gloved hand, signaling the ref for a timeout.
"What are you doing?" Landon hissed, his chest heaving as he skated over. "We don't need a breather. We need you to keep up."
"Shut up," I said. It was a low, jagged command that stopped him mid-stride. The rest of the unit gathered around, looking at me with a mix of confusion and naked hostility.
I leaned on my stick, eyes tracking from Landon’s arrogant sneer to the frustration etched into Mason’s face.
"Look at yourselves," I said, my voice cutting through the arena’s artificial thunder. "You’re playing like you have a hundred years left in your legs. Like this game is just a backdropfor your little locker-room drama. You think you’re punishing me by freezing me out? You’re not."
I stepped closer, the steel of my skates grinding into the ice. "I’m thirty-six years old. I’m at the end of a very long, very loud career. I know exactly where the exit is. But you? You’re acting like you’ll never be where I’m standing. Like the game owes you a win just because you showed up with a Surge logo on your chest."
Landon opened his mouth, but I stepped into his space, the scent of sweat and frozen oxygen between us. "The game doesn't care about your ego, Landon. It doesn't care who ratted who out or who’s the 'alpha' in the room. It only cares about the puck. And right now, the puck is telling the world you’re a bunch of amateurs who can’t handle a veteran in the room. You want to have a legacy? Start acting like it. Or keep playing for yourselves and watch the Jets walk out of here with your dignity."
I turned and skated toward the face-off dot before they could respond. The silence behind me was heavy, but the air felt different, vibrating with a new kind of tension.
The puck dropped, and for the first three shifts, the distrust lingered. It was a "sticky" kind of hockey. Passes were a second late, eyes were looking for anyone but me. But the Jets were relentless, trapping us in our own zone.
The change happened at the twelve-minute mark.
Cash was pinned against the boards, two Winnipeg jerseys suffocating him. Normally, Landon would have stayed high, waiting for a breakout. Instead, I dove into the scrum, using my frame to wedge a gap. I took a heavy elbow to the ribs, but managed to kick the puck loose. Without looking, my instinct drove toward the outlet and I banked a hard, rim-around pass off the glass.
Landon caught it in stride. He hesitated for a heartbeat, then realized I’d just bought him five yards of open ice. He screamed down the wing and fired a cross-crease pass back to the middle. I wasn't there for the goal, but Grayson was.
2-1. The celebration was brief. Just a few glove taps, a wary nod from Grayson. But the ice was starting to tilt.
In the third period, the hesitant trust turned into a flow state. On a power play, I was stationed at the net front, taking a beating from the Jets’ goalie and their lead defenseman. My job was to be the screen, the meat shield. Landon had the puck at the point. In Chicago, he would have fired a low-percentage shot just to keep it away from me. This time, he waited. He saw me tie up the defender's stick, creating a screen.
He didn't shoot. He slid a deceptive, no-look pass to my tape. I didn't have room to turn, so I redirected it between my own skates. A dirty, redirected goal that trickled past the goalie’s pads.
2-2. The arena erupted. As I skated toward the bench, Landon was the first one there. He didn't smile, but he slammed his glove against my shoulder hard enough to bruise.
"Nice hands, old man," he muttered.
The game-winner was a work of art. It started with a defensive stand in our zone. I blocked a shot with my shin guard and chipped the puck to Cash. We moved as a unit, a three-man weave that felt like the Surge of the old highlight reels.
Cash to Landon. Landon to me. I drew the defender toward the corner, then feathered a backhand pass into the slot where Landon was waiting. He didn't miss. He buried it top-shelf, then let out a primal roar that echoed off the rafters.
3-2, Surge.
We added an empty-netter in the final minute to make it 4-2. When the final horn sounded, the discord hadn't magically vanished but the hierarchy had been restored. Every one of us was a player in this team, and part of something bigger.
I skated off the ice last, my body screaming, my breath coming in ragged stabs. As I entered the tunnel, I saw the team ahead of me. They weren't looking back for a rat or a guest. They were moving like a pack again. I’d asserted myself not by shouting the loudest, but by reminding them that in this building, the only thing that mattered was the scoreboard.
And for the first time since I’d landed in San Antonio, the jersey didn't feel like a rental. It felt like my new armor.
The adrenaline was beginning to ebb, replaced by the dull, throbbing ache of a shot-block to the shin and the bone-deep weariness that follows a comeback. The locker room was a chaotic symphony of tape being ripped, Velcro snapping, and the heavy bass of a victory track thumping through the speakers. It was loud, it was rowdy, and for the first time, I didn't feel like the volume dropped when I walked past.
