Jett grabs it, drives to the crease.
Bodies crash and sticks scramble, there’s chaos in front of the net.
He finds daylight.
Goal.
“BRRRROOONNNK!”
3–3.
Silver State Arena becomes unglued.
Merce taps out. Peters returns.
He hits the ice hard, eyes locked in, jaw set.
One minute left.
I breathe deeply, and my eyes scan the ice.
There—Bishy, just past the top of the circle.
I thread the puck between two defenders.
Bishy catches it mid-stride. Doesn’t slow.
He leans in and rips it like he means it.
Time slows.
The puck screams through the air, skimming past the glove like it knows exactly where it’s going.
Net.
The horn sounds. “BRRRROOONNNK!”
The place blows up.
We don’t wait.
We hit the ice like we just broke out of prison, helmets smacking, gloves flying, and fists hammering each other’s pads.
4–3.
Victory.
***
Here we all are in the Bud Light Lounge at the Silver State Arena.
My ribs feel like someone took a crowbar to them. My neck’s stiff. There's a welt forming on my thigh the size of a grapefruit. And I’d play that game all over again tomorrow.
First win as captain, and I’m still breathing. Barely.
Riley’s all over Jett, one hand on his arm, the other tracing the logo on his shirt like she’s never seen letters before. Poor guy just looks like he wants to run for the hills.
Brody’s in an animated conversation with Mariana about God knows what.