Mercer reads the play early, cuts of Vanek’s lane, and forces a dump-in.
We recover.
Brody circles back, feeds it to Mercer. He delays, draws in the fore-checker, then threads a pass up the wall.
I grab it, pivot, and drive.
Stormhawks press, but Mercer’s positioning holds, he’s not flashy, but he’s airtight.
Two minutes later, Peters returns. Mercer taps gloves and drops back to the bench.
Peters wastes no time—steps up, intercepts a stretch pass, and rifles it cross-ice to Brody.
We surge again.
The crowd gasps. Then groans. No goal, and it’s the end of the first. Down 0-1.
We come back out for the second with a different energy and explode out of the gate, fore-checking like we’ve got teeth.
Every hit has more weight. Every shift is a war.
Stormhawks reel, until we overcommit.
Turnover.
Foster breaks.
I take off, cut across, and force him wide.
He spins. Delivers it right into Smithy’s wheelhouse.
That damn sniper again. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.
CRACK.
“BRRRROOONNNK!” 0-2.
“COME ON!” I slam my stick against the boards. My heart is thumping like it wants to break out of my ribs.
Vancouver’s crowd is relentless.
McCullum pulls us in, his voice low and dark. “Okay. We are NOT rolling over. We get physical. NOW!”
Next shift, Bishy rotates off. Vasko jumps in.
He’s got fire in his eyes, skates like he’s chasing ghosts.
We bring heat.
Checks harder. Sticks sharper. Every puck battle feels like a fistfight.
Vasko crashes the boards, digs out a loose puck, and fires a blind backhand into the slot—Thumper nearly buries it.
Stormhawks scramble.
Then Foster goes wide on me.
I move in. Shoulder to ribs.
