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I grew up in hockey arenas. I am not a teenager watching Hayes Bishop skate anymore. My body apparently missed the memo.

The puck drops twenty minutes later. And Montreal comes out hungry. By the middle of the first period, it’s obvious Chicago can’t seem to find its rhythm.

The guys seem to be struggling; the passes are half a second late. Their entries keep getting broken up at the blue line. Bishop creates two chances that go nowhere.

Montreal gets one past Chicago at the other end.

The arena groans.

Then, the new guy, Hutch, scores. The red light flashes and Ignite explodes.

According to the chatter around me, Hutchison has only been with the Phoenixes since the start of the season, and I know enough about hockey to know that scoring isn’t exactly what anyone expects from a fourth-line winger.

I’m on my feet with everyone else to watch Hutch get swallowed by green and black jerseys against the glass.

Bishop reaches him last, smacking a glove against his helmet before they skate toward the bench. One-on-one.

But by the time they’re well into the second period, Hutch is still the only Phoenix who has found the back of the net.

A whistle blows, and Chicago’s coach calls everyone toward the bench, and whatever he’s saying can’t be good. I can’t hear him from here. I don’t need to. His face does most of the translating. I’ve seen that look on my dad’s face a thousand times.

Bishop stands closest, bent forward with both gloves resting on the top of his stick. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t look away, just listens.

He’s a different person on the ice. There is a calmness running under all that intensity.

When they line up again, the mood has shifted. I know that look. I’ve seen it at many North Pines games.

Game on.

Bishop wins the draw. The puck moves back, then around.

Montreal tries to clog the middle, forcing Chicago wide.

Bishop circles higher, Jax cuts toward the net, and Mercer drifts to the weak side. The puck comes back to Bishop. A lane opens. For half a second, he has the shot.

The defenseman sees it too. He cheats toward Bishop. Then the goalie shifts. And I know exactly what Bishop is going to do before he does it.

Because while the defenseman is watching the puck, Bishop is watching everyone else. He takes one more stride. Makes them commit.

Then sends the puck behind him without looking. Jax is already there. His stick connects.

Red light!

The sound inside Ignite is deafening.

I’m screaming before I even realize I’m doing it. Jax slams into the glass. Bishop gets there a second later, and the rest of the line crashes into them.

My pulse is pounding like I’m the one on the ice.

I’ve watched Bishop play hockey for most of my life. I’ve always known he was good. Somehow, watching him now feels different.

Maybe because last night those same capable hands were wrapped around my waist. I felt his strength when he lifted me like I weighed nothing.

Maybe because he asked me to be here. Not to watch him play my brother. Not to watch with my parents.

Just me, Delaney Beckett.

Whatever the reason, when number twenty-two skates past the glass, I can’t look away.