I watch helplessly as the puck rockets past our goalie’s glove. For a moment, the world slows.
And then—
PANG!
The puck rings off the crossbar like a gunshot just missing its target. The sound is metallic and deafening. Then the puck ricochets harmlessly into the corner.
I scramble to my feet, my heart thumping. My teammates fight for possession along the boards, bodies colliding, sticks jabbing. I try to track the play through the commotion.
“Clerky!” Dewey’s voice cuts through the noise.
Our defenseman winds up, rimming the puck hard around the boards.
I lock in, watching as the Spartans fall into their defensive pattern. The strong-side defenseman pinches down, the weak-side defenseman drifts too deep, just like Dewey said.
Dewey angles his stick as the puck zips towards him. As he makes contact with it, the puck ricochets off the glass, sailing high in the air, past both defensemen.
The puck bounces back onto the ice, hopping and skipping, no defender in sight. I sprint through the center of the ice in pursuit of the wobbling puck as it careens past mid-ice and into the Spartans zone, uncontested. I explode forward, my legs on fire, my skates carving deep into the ice. I spring past the red line, desperate to gather possession.
The Spartans bench screams warnings, their voices barely audible through the rising roar of the crowd. The energy inside Madison Square Garden climbs as the arena vibrates.
The puck is just out of my reach. That’s when the Spartan goalie makes his move.
He sprints forward, abandoning his crease. A bold, reckless decision.
It’s a race for the loose puck.
I drop my shoulders, digging deeper, pushing harder. My skates cut the ice with a force that sends shavings spraying into the air. The goalie’s eyes lock onto mine, just for a split second—
Then, the goalie lunges, stacking his pads, arms outstretched, committing fully.
I have nowhere to go.
Then instinct kicks in, taking over before my mind has a chance to process my actions. My hands shoot forward, my stick blade flicking the puck just over the goalie’s sprawling reach.
At the same time, my body coils. I plant my skate, whip my torso, and spin—
The world tilts, blurs, melts into motion. For a fleeting moment, I hear Petra’s voice in my head: “Spot your turn. Control the momentum. Don’t fight it.”
I emerge from the turn balanced and steady on my skates.
The puck is waiting for me.
The net—empty.
I don’t hesitate. I rifle the puck into the open net with a booming shot. A sharp, decisive blow.
The red goal light flashes behind the net.
Game over.
For a beat, Madison Square Garden is still. The whole world is still. Then, the Garden explodes. A deafening, all-consuming roar fills the arena.
The boards rattle as the place erupts into pandemonium.
I’m still on my skates, my breath caught in my chest, staring at the net where the puck has landed—where I’ve put it.
Did that just happen?
