The first five minutes are a siege. Michigan cycles in our zone, with pucks clanging off the post and Declan making saves that would be highlight reels if we weren’t too busy surviving to appreciate them. I block a shot with my shin, and the pain flashes bright and hot from ankle to knee. I skate through it because the puck is already moving and the third period doesn’t fucking care where it hurts.
During the TV timeout, I look up.
Press box. Third row, left side.
She is there with her laptop open and her spine straight, shoulders set, eyes down on the ice like she is already filing what the rest of the building is still screaming about. From sixty feet below, she is only a shape behind glass.
I know the shape anyway. I have been finding her from center ice since the first game she covered.
The whistle brings us back.
Dante gets low in a board battle. The Michigan defenseman has size on him, but Dante plants his edges and locks his shoulder into the boards until the other guy runs out of space. His shoulder drives in. His stick works free. Then the puck is on the wall, coming to me, and the ice opens.
Three-on-two.
My next breath cuts short.
I carry through the neutral zone. Michigan’s D backs up. They respect my speed, they’ve watched the tape, and the retreat gives me a lane. The lane to Dante opens instead of the shot. Dante fills wide left. Adrian drives the net. We have run this play a thousand times in practice: I carry to the hash marks, sell theshot, and slide the puck through the defenseman’s feet to Dante on the back door.
I sell the shot. The goalie commits. The puck slides through.
Dante one-times it blocker side.
The puck hits the back of the net, and the roar slams into my cage. The Briarcliff section erupts. The horn. The goal light. Sixteen thousand people releasing at once. 3–2.
Dante slams into the boards in celebration, and I’m there with his gloves on my jersey and my hand on the back of his helmet. His forehead knocks against mine through the cages. His eyes find me through the visor.
“Filthy pass,” he says, grinning.
Nobody sees that grin except me, Maya, and the inside of his helmet. For half a second, the composure slips off his face.
“Filthy finish,” I say.
The lead lasts four minutes. Michigan ties it on a power play, Adrian in the box for a slash he swears he didn’t commit, and their top line makes us pay. One-timer from the circle. Declan has no chance. 3–3. Adrian comes back to the bench with his jaw locked and both hands tight around his stick.
The bench goes quiet. Gloves tighten around sticks. Chests heave. Nobody looks away from Addison. He doesn’t panic. Addison has never panicked in a game I’ve played for him. He adjusts the lines, shortens the bench, and I understand the message: the starters are playing the rest of this game.
Seven minutes left. Then five. Then three. The ice gets heavier with every shift, the third period of a Frozen Four game grinding through my legs, my lungs, the dull throb in my shin. Michigan is tired too. Every shift starts taking pieces out of us. Every stride costs more than the last, and nobody on either bench has enough air left to waste.
Addison calls a timeout with 2:47 left. We huddle at the bench, sucking down water and air while the boards shake under the crowd noise.
“Gio,” Addison says. “You’re in for the next shift.”
Gio’s head snaps up. He has been on the bench for the last six minutes, second line, playing his minutes, doing his job. He is fast and skilled and reckless enough that Addison has spent four years trying to keep the fire pointed at the net instead of the penalty box. The play here should be the top line: Adrian, Dante, and me.
“Coach—” Adrian starts.
“Gio. With Cole and Dante. Adrian, you’re centering the second unit.”
A few helmets turn. Adrian’s jaw works, but he doesn’t argue. You do not argue with Addison during a timeout. His eyes find mine, then flick back to Addison.
I nod. Adrian nods back.
Gio stands and tightens his chin strap. His eyes are too wide, too bright. His gloves flex around his stick, and his knee bounces once before he forces it still. Against the boards, his stick taps in a rhythm only he hears.
“Gio.” Dante’s voice is low enough to cut under the arena noise instead of fighting over it. “Take a breath. Find the soft ice. We’ll get you the puck.”
Gio nods once. Sharp. His focus narrows. His shoulders drop half an inch.
