The team clapped enthusiastically, everyone getting hyped up by Coach’s remarks.
An overtime Game 7 was the ultimate pressure cooker, and everyone felt it. The forwards had the burden of scoring the game-winning goal. The defensemen were stressed out, trying to ensure no one on the opposing team got a quality scoring chance. And the goalie . . . l didn’t envy Reed’s job one bit today. Everyone would look at him if a puck managed to squeeze past him tonight, no matter who was truly at fault for the breakdown that led to the goal.
The twenty minutes of intermission was over in the blink of an eye, and we lined up to hit the ice—hopefully, not for the last time this season.
Overtime stretched on for longer than anyone could have hoped.
Five minutes went by.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
Panic set in that this might not be settled with a single overtime period. This could go on all night until a winner was decided. No matter who won after a marathon overtime game, they would be trashed going into the Conference Finals—the physical toll would carry over.
As the team’s leading defenseman, I took on more minutes than the rest and was running out of steam.
My legs became heavy, feeling loaded down by lead weights. I painfully forced myself to put one skate in front of the other. My capacity to think beyond simply continuing to move was diminishing quickly. Soon, I wouldn’t have the wherewithal to keep a sharp eye on the movements of the Speed players.
We just needed one lucky break.
And without warning, we got it.
Jaxon’s legs were taken out from beneath him by none other than Maddox Sterling, and the ref threw his hand up to signal a penalty. Maybe it was a little bit of karma for daring to put his hands on my girl, but my old college teammate was headed to the penalty box, and we were up a man.
There was no option. Wehadto cash in on this power play and end this game.
Hannah’s voice rang out clearly in my head from our first film session together.
Less passing, more shooting. Keep. It. Simple.
Pulling the top power-play unit in for a quick huddle, I uttered to them, “Pepper the fucking goalie. Let’s make this one count.”
They nodded in agreement with my game plan, and we lined up for Jaxon to take the face-off in our offensive zone. Winning it back to me, I skated the length of the blue line, looking for a chance. Seeing three men screening the goalie, I pulled my stick back to the height of my shoulder and slapped the puck as hard as I could. It flew through the air at breakneck speed but didn’t make it past the netminder.
There was a flurry of motion in front of the net as my teammates tried to slam it across the goal line, where it fell after my slapshot. Before I knew it, the puck was poked free and shot up the boards right back onto my stick.
With so many bodies down low, there was a surplus of open ice.
Knowing Hannah would wring my neck but running on pure adrenaline, I skated forward. Jaxon noticed my intentions and fell back to play defense in my stead. There was a tiny spot of the net open. I wasn’t as skilled at picking corners as the forwards, but if I missed, there were enough of my teammates there to hopefully clean it up for me and get the game-winner. I didn’t care who scored so long as it was us.
I felt my stick bend as I threw my weight into flicking my wrist and shooting the puck.
Time slowed down, and I watched it sail through the air, finding that tiny open pocket of netting not covered by the goalie. My arms were over my head in celebration the second I saw the white string weave moving to cradle the puck—muscle memory was funny like that.
We did it!
Skating to where several of my teammates were gathered in front of the net to celebrate with them, I was caught off-guard by the sharp two-handed slam of a stick against my shoulder blades from behind. Thrown off balance, my body lurched forward, head-first on a collision course with the boards surrounding the ice surface. There was no way to stop or slow my trajectory, and I braced for impact.
Then my world went black.
Chapter 25
Hannah
Game 7s were cursed.You couldn’t convince me otherwise.
They were great for television ratings, and I could see why by taking myself out of the situation. If my team weren’t involved, I would have my popcorn ready, excited to watch two teams duke it out, knowing only one could survive. It didn’t matter who’d won the previous games; it all came down to one final showdown.
