Page 148 of Offside Angle

Clean.

2–1.

For half a second, Vancouver goes eerily quiet.

Then the anger comes back twice as loud.

The Reapers bench is already pounding sticks against the boards while Cole turns away from the net, and Matteo reaches him first. Their helmets knock together when Matteo grabs him, both of them shouting something I can’t hear before the rest of the celebration catches up.

I keep shooting, but somewhere in the middle of it I make the mistake of letting myself imagine what happens if that score holds.

I can see Matteo disappearing beneath his teammates when the horn sounds, that huge, disbelieving grin taking over his face. Elias screaming himself hoarse. Cole and Viktor crashing into whoever happens to be closest. Jace probably ending up on the ice again for reasons that have nothing to do with hockey.

And me standing exactly where I am, camera raised, trying to capture the moment they win the Cup while Vancouver falls apart around them.

For a few minutes, it feels close enough to touch.

Then Vanguard takes it away.

There are less than three minutes left when they win a battle along the wall and throw the puck toward the crease. Shane handles the first shot, but the rebound kicks loose before the Reapers can clear it. One of Vancouver’s defensemen steps down into the open space and gets all of the next one.

Top corner.

2–2.

The building detonates.

My camera is moving before my brain catches up, muscle memory taking over while my stomach drops somewhere near the floor.

Matteo is standing beside the crease when I find him through the lens. He tips his head back and stares toward the rafters for a second, frustration written all over him, before forcing himself to turn toward the bench.

There’s no time to mourn it.

The last few minutes disappear in a blur of blocked shots, rushed changes and both teams refusing to give the other anything clean enough to finish.

When the horn finally sounds, nobody has broken the tie.

Overtime.

I lower the camera and let out the breath I’ve apparently been holding while the players disappear down their tunnels.

The arena feels different again.

Vancouver only needs one goal to drag this back to Ravensburg.

The Reapers only need one to end it here.

And now every bad bounce, every turnover, every puck that finds its way through traffic suddenly feels capable of deciding which one we get.

Overtime starts carefully.

Both teams look terrified of being the first one to make a mistake, so the pace changes almost immediately. Passes get safer, nobody cheats too far offensively, and every time the puck moves toward the middle there are bodies collapsing around it before anything clean can develop. The hits are still heavy, but even those feel more controlled now, everyone painfully aware that one bad read or one unlucky bounce could decide the night.

I keep the camera raised and follow the play through the lens, although my pulse is loud enough that I can hear it between whistles.

The first real chance belongs to the Reapers.

Elias steals the puck near center and suddenly he’s through alone. The entire building seems to realize it at once, the noise dropping into that strange collective inhale as he cuts toward the slot and snaps a shot toward the far side.