I cataloged the position of each Wolves player.
One at the blue line.
One moving along the half-wall.
One parked at the right circle
One in the slot at the center of the zone.
One right in front of the net, trying to block my vision.
Next, I tracked the puck movement. For now, the Wolves were passing the puck between them, forcing my guys out of position as we tried to create a turnover.
I peeked at the timer counting down. Just under sixty seconds remained before Wyatt could break free of the box and rejoin the action.
I’ve got this. Fifty-nine seconds is nothing. I’ve fended off three-minute-long defensive zone possessions with dead-legged, tired players in front of me before.
A shift happened, and a second Wolves player joined the one in front of the net. Only one of our guys could commit to defending them. The other three remained focused on boxing out the rest, keeping potential shots to the outside and from a distance, giving me a better chance to save them. The only downside was that now there were two guys in front of me who could lift their sticks out for a deflection on one of those far shots, changing the puck’s trajectory faster than I could react.
The player at the blue line pulled his stick back, gearing up for a hard slap shot. I squared up in the net. Most people thought goalies were insane for being willing to put their bodies on the line to take hundred-mile-per-hour shots, but I got a high from being the last line of defense, knowing it was up to me to make a save when all else failed. The bulky gear to soften the blow didn’t hurt either.
Come on, give it your best shot.
The crack of the stick on the ice reached my ears, and I tracked the trajectory of the black rubber disc hurtling toward me at breakneck speed.
Ready . . . now!
Perfectly timed, my gloved hand shot out, the force of impact into the webbing against my palm making me hiss, but I closed my fingers, holding onto the puck long enough for the whistle to blow, stopping play.
It couldn’t have come at a better time. Our top PK unit was gassed, and they headed to the bench for a change. With only thirteen seconds left on the penalty against us, if we won the face-off, we could effectively kill it off and focus on scoring a tying goal.
Asher lined up for the face-off this time. Usually a winger, he didn’t bother trying to win the battle when the ref dropped the puck. Instead, he opted to tie up the Wolves’ center, allowing Eli Clifford to swoop in and make a slingshot pass behind the net and around the boards just as Wyatt stepped onto the ice.
Oh, hell yes.
Every set of eyes in the arena watched on as Wyatt found himself alone in open ice, barreling straight toward the Wolves’ goalie, Costa.
Wyatt faked to the right, but Costa was smart enough not to bite on the deke. So when Wyatt immediately pulled to the left, Costa assumed he would shoot. But I knew better. Wehad shootout competitions monthly in practice, and I was on the receiving end of all my teammates’ moves. It was another fake. Wyatt waited until Costa dropped, legs spread wide, before sliding the puck to the right and chipping it into the net.
My whoop echoed along with those of my teammates. The arena had gone silent as the home crowd realized how quickly they’d gone from having an advantage to giving up the tying goal.
Gotta love this game.
It was closing in on midnight when the team plane touched down in Indy after the Speed had come from behind to win in overtime. Since it was still early and Maddox had already declared that tomorrow would be a maintenance day—no practice; a day off for rest or treatment—some of the younger guys were planning to hit Pipes to celebrate.
When they asked me to join them, I declined. The only person I wanted to celebrate with was Gemma.
Excitement buzzed beneath my skin when I pushed through the door of her little bar, still busy despite the late hour. I’d wait here until she was done for the night, then take her home and burn off the adrenaline from the win.
Stepping up to the bar top, I sat on the only empty stool. Rachel, who usually worked opposite shifts from Gemma, stopped before me. “What can I get you?”
Elbows on the counter, I craned my neck to down the length of the bar. “Where’s Gemma?”
“Oh, she called off,” Rachel explained.
“She called off . . .” It wasn’t like Gemma to not make it to work. “Did she say why?”
The girl across the counter shrugged. “No clue. All I know is Bennie called me up last minute to take her place.”
