The ref drops the puck, and the Stormhawks come fast, but we don’t move. Every line match is a collision. Puck possession flips every few seconds. It’s chaos.
Then their winger swipes a shot from the high slot.
I lunge—
CRACK!
I get my stick down just in time. Deflection sends it harmlessly wide.
“Hell yeah, Mitchell!” Brody yells from somewhere behind.
But I have no time to respond as Thumper fires a wrister from the top of the circle—wide.
He circles back, panting hard, shoulders sagging.
McIntosh signals.
Thumper skates toward the bench, jaw clenched, sweat dripping.
“Son of a bitch,” he growls, voice raw. “I’m not dead, just fucking smoked.”
He slams his stick against the boards as he hops off.
Davis jumps on—second center.
He’s leaner, cooler, eyes locked in like he’s playing chess at warp speed.
Next shift, Davis wins the draw clean.
Feeds it back to Peters, who swings it to Mercer, rotated in again for a defensive matchup.
We cycle.
Davis floats into the slot, ghosting past their D.
Brody threads it.
Davis tips it.
CLANG!
Off the crossbar.
Crowd groans.
But we’re pressing.
Davis digs deep in the corner, spins off a check, and sends it back to me.
I load up
Blocked.
Stormhawks scramble, but Davis is already back, cutting off the breakout.
Then Foster rams into me near the boards. Hard.
I snap around, fists ready.
