Page 67 of For Pucking Ever

I can't help the grin splitting my face. "You know this is just a regular Tuesday for him."

Fifteen minutes into the first period, and Chicago already looks frustrated. Sebastian has turned away eight shots, each save more ridiculous than the last. The Chicago bench is getting antsy, their coach's face reddening with each denied opportunity.

This team, my team now, moves like they share a brain. Tor takes the face-off, wins it clean, and sends the puck back to Ridley, who's already moving up the boards. Three Chicago players converge, but Ridley threads a pass through their sticks to Devan, who's cutting across center ice.

"GO!" I shout with the rest of the bench, our bodies collectively leaning forward like we can somehow push Devan faster with our will.

Devan dangles past their defenseman, dekes once, twice, then dishes a no-look pass to Tor, who's suddenly wide open. The shot is quick, clean, top shelf.

Goal!

The horn blares, and our bench erupts. I'm high-fiving guys I barely know, getting slapped on the back, caught in the collective joy. I catch Sebastian's eye from across the ice. Even behind his mask, I can tell he's smiling that private smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. He gives me a small nod, and my chest tightens with something that feels dangerously close to love.

Coach Lennox paces behind us, barking adjustments, but there's approval in his voice. This is what he built, a machine with every part working in perfect harmony.

"Shaw," he says suddenly, and I snap to attention. "Watch Maxwell's positioning. See how he's covering the weak side? That's where you need to improve your vision."

"Yes, Coach," I nod, immediately focusing on Maxwell's defensive play.

That's how it goes for the rest of the period. I'm not just sitting, I'm studying. Each shift change, Coach points out something new to watch. Defensive angles, breakout patterns, the way Chicago telegraphs their shots. This might not be my game to play, but it's definitely my game to learn.

By the second period, we're up 2-0 after Ridley buries a rebound. Chicago gets nasty, throwing hits, trying to rattle us. One particularly brutal check sends Devan flying into the boards.

"Oh shit," I mutter as Devan slowly gets to his feet, shaking it off.

The next shift, Devan finds the guy who hit him and returns the favor, nearly shaking the glass loose. The message is clear: Our enforcer will return the pain, two-fold.

Sebastian remains untouchable. A Chicago forward gets too close to his crease, and Devan is there immediately, shoving him away with enough force to start a minor scuffle. The refs separate them, but Devan's point is made. Nobody gets near our goalie.

"You see that?" Coach Lennox says to me. "That's what we need from you too. Attitude. Presence. When you're in that crease, it's your kingdom."

I nod, swallowing hard. Right now, watching Sebastian, I can't imagine ever measuring up. He's a wall, a force of nature. Forty minutes into the game, and Chicago has thrown everything they have at him, one-timers, deflections, screened shots and he's stopped all twenty-seven attempts.

The third period starts with more intensity. Chicago is desperate now. They crash the net, trying to create chaos, but Sebastian stays centered, focused. I watch his eyes, how they track the puck through traffic, how he never loses sight of it even when bodies are flying.

Groves picks up a loose puck in the neutral zone and turns on the jets. For a big guy, he's surprisingly fast, and he blows past Chicago's defense. The goalie comes out to challenge, but Groves just waits, waits, then tucks it five-hole as the goalie drops.

3-0.

The bench celebrates again, but my eyes are on Sebastian. Even with a three-goal cushion, there's no relaxation in his stance. Every save matters. Every moment has the same intensity.

"That's why he's the best," Javier says beside me, following my gaze. "Never takes a shift off. Not even in practice."

I've seen it firsthand. Those early mornings in the practice facility, just the two of us. Sebastian drilling me on positioning, reflexes, angles. Pushing me until my legs burn and sweat soaks through my practice jersey.

"He's making you better," Javier adds, bumping my shoulder. "Your time's coming. Be ready."

With five minutes left, Chicago pulls their goalie. Six attackers against our five skaters and Sebastian. They're desperate, throwing everything at the net.

Sebastian makes a save that defies physics, a full split, glove extended, somehow snagging a puck that was labeled for the top corner. The crowd gives him a standing ovation mid-play.

I'm on my feet again, unable to contain myself. This is why I wanted to be a goalie. This exact feeling, watching someone perform the impossible and knowing, someday, that could be me.

The final horn sounds. Shutout. 3-0.

The team pours onto the ice, converging on Sebastian. I hang back slightly until his eyes find mine through the crowd. He motions me over with a tilt of his head, and I join the celebration, bumping fists with guys who just played their hearts out.

"You seeing the game differently?" Sebastian asks quietly as we skate toward the tunnel, the roar of the crowd still washing over us.