The vibration of the Frost Bank arena was different tonight. It wasn't just the playoff hum or the recycled air of the place, but the specific, localized heat coming from Box 204. I didn't need to look up to know they were there, but as I finished my warm-up lap, my eyes drifted instinctively toward the glass.
Kayla was leaning forward, her hands gripped tight on the railing, looking smaller than usual in a borrowed Surge jersey that drowned her frame. Beside her, Gabe was a statue of pure, unadulterated focus. He wasn't cheering yet, but analyzing. He watched the way the steel hit the ice, his eyes tracking the puck with a hunger that made my chest tighten. I recognized that look all too well.
"Focus, Romeo," Tucker chirped, spraying a wall of ice over my skates as he pulled up beside me. "The girl’s not going anywhere, but the Wild’s top line sure as hell is."
"She’s a friend, Tucker. Shut up and skate," I snapped, though the grin tugging at my mouth betrayed me.
"Sure. And I'm a figure skater," Cash added, gliding past with a wink. "Nice seats, by the way. I didn't know you had 'center-ice box' money on a veteran minimum."
The whistle blew, and the teasing died into the roar of twenty thousand fans. Game 5. The series was tied 2-2, and the atmosphere was a powder keg.
I started the game on the bench, my blood simmering as I watched the first line battle through a grueling opening five minutes. The Wild were playing a heavy, physical game, trying to bully us off the puck. Every time a hit landed near the Box 204 side of the ice, I felt a jolt of protective adrenaline. I wanted to show Gabe what a clean check looked like. I wanted Kayla to see that the old man she served water to was a god in this rink.
"Michael! Shawn! Get out there and tilt the ice!" Coach barked.
I hopped the boards, the transition seamless. The puck was loose in the neutral zone. I put my head down, my strides long and powerful, and reached the puck a split second before the Wild defenseman. I used my hips to seal him off, and kick-started a cycle that left the Minnesota bench scrambling.
"Shawn, back door!" I yelled, shielding the puck with my body as I drove toward the corner.
I felt the defender’s stick hacking at my ribs, but I didn't flinch. I was playing with a secondary engine tonight. I spun off the boards, spotted Shawn cutting toward the crease, and threaded a needle-thin pass through three sets of skates.
Clack.Shawn redirected it. Back of the net.
1-0, Surge.
The arena exploded. Gabe was on his feet, punching the air, his face lit up with an electric joy. Kayla was laughing, her hands pressed to her cheeks.
I skated back to the bench, my heart drumming a triumphant rhythm.
"Look at him," Landon teased as I sat down, dripping sweat and breathing hard. "He’s playing like he’s twenty-two again. What’s in the water at that bar, Seattle? I might need a gallon."
"It’s just hockey," I panted, closing my eyes for a second to center myself.
"Right. And I'm the Pope," he chuckled.
The second period was a masterclass in Surge dominance. We weren't just winning, but dismantling them. The Wild tried to get chippy, taking a run at Aiden near the mid-ice logo. I didn't wait for the whistle. I stepped in, dropped my shoulder into the perpetrator, and reminded him that experience still had teeth.
During a TV timeout, I looked up again. Gabe was pointing at me, talking animatedly to Kayla, his hands moving to mimic a defensive stance. He was learning. He was seeing the game through the lens I’d given him.
With five minutes left in the second, we caught the Wild on a bad line change. Grayson carried the puck deep, drawing the goalie out of position. He flipped a saucer pass over a diving stick right onto my tape.
I didn't think. Just fired.
The puck whistled into the top shelf, a clean, violent strike that nearly tore the netting. 2-0.
I slid on one knee, my glove trailing on the ice, and for a fleeting second, I let myself look directly at Box 204. Kayla was screaming, her face radiant under the arena lights. That alone made the searing sting in my joints worth it.
The horn signaled the end of the second period, and we headed to the locker room with the momentum of a runaway freight train.
Coach was waiting, his face a mask of controlled intensity.
"That is Surge hockey!" he shouted, pacing the carpet. "Michael, that second goal was a clinic. Mason, great eyes on the transition. We’ve got them on the ropes, boys. They’re tired, they’re frustrated, and they’re looking for a way out. Don't give it to them. Finish the job."
I sat in my stall, stripping my gloves and feeling the heavy, satisfying ache of a job well done. The guys were still buzzing, the locker room loud with the sound of a team that knew they were the better side.
"Seriously though," Tucker said, leaning over from his stall while he re-taped his stick. "We’re going to the Faucet after this, right? We need to officially thank the woman for whatever she did to your skates tonight."
"She’s just a friend, Tucker," I repeated, though even to my own ears, the lie was starting to sound thin.
