Then they scoreagain.
This one hurts. A brutal rebound. Rowan deflects the initial shot, but it bounces off Bruno’s skate and lands right on their captain’s stick.
He doesn’t hesitate. Just slaps it in, clean and deadly.
Rowan slams his glove down with a roar that echoes off the boards. He kicks the post, furious. I see it in his body, the rage, the disbelief, the desperation to hold the line.
The arena’s still loud, but not in the same way.
It’snervousnow.
They score a third time.
And just like that, it’s 3-3.
There’s a pulse under the noise, a low-level panic humming in the stands. The kind that tightens shoulders and sends fans to grip their seats like that might help the team hold the lead.
Coach is yelling. His voice cuts through the static like a whip.
“Reset! Stick to the fundamentals! Hold the damn line!”
We huddle fast. Tight, breathless, rattling with adrenaline. The cold air burns in our lungs, our exhales turning to steam like smoke from a battlefield.
Bruno’s jaw is clenched so hard I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack. He mutters something in Slovak, low and guttural, and I don’t know what it means, but it hits like a war cry straight to the chest.
Rowan slams his blocker against the goalpost twice. Sharp, metallic. The sound echoes like a starting gun. That’s his version of shouting. Of screaming.
I skate backward into position, my stick tapping the ice in a staccato rhythm to keep the nerves at bay.
“No more cracks,” I bark. “No more gaps. We lock this down. We finish. We didn’t claw our way here just to let it slip now.”
Bruno’s eyes meet mine, and he nods once, tight, grim, ready to bleed for this. Rowan crouches low in the crease, every muscle coiled like a spring.
The ref drops the puck.
And the whole game detonates.
It’s not hockey anymore, it’s a war zone.
Bodies crash into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass. Helmets snap back. Sticks clash like swords. Someone goes flying, loses a glove, and still dives barehanded for the puck like a man possessed.
Not me.
Probablyshould’vebeen me.
We grind. We scrap. We refuse to give an inch. My legs are screaming, my lungs are lava, but I don’t stop. None of us does.
It’s not even about the scoreboard anymore. It’s about us. About pride. About proving we’re still standing. That we’re still us.
The puck squirts loose near the boards, chaos, bodies falling, a perfect storm, and Bruno gets to it first.
He spins out of a check and sends a pass up the wing, fast and clean, like he saw the whole play three seconds before it happened. It lands on my stick, and time slows.
I should pass.
I know I should pass.
But the net is open. Just for a second.
