I skate out for the final shift. My legs ache, my ribs feel bruised from the last hit, and my knuckles are raw from a mid-game scrap that got me two minutes in the box.
Dom takes his spot beside me and doesn’t say anything. Just cracks his neck and exhales. The other team’s coach is screaming across the rink. Their goalie’s already halfway to the bench.
They’re pulling him.
Extra attacker. Six on five.
But we’re up 1–0. I could lie down on the ice and take a goddamn nap, and Zed would still have us covered.
I look up at Melody again, who’s still watching me with furrowed brows. And I feel every ounce of energy I’ve got tunnel straight into focus. I nod once at her, and she presses her hand against her chest.
Fuck.
I’m gonna spend my life with this girl. But first, I’ve got a fucking game to win.
Puck drops.
They come in hot—pass, pass, shoot. The crowd goes feral. Opposing forwards swarm over the boards, skating hard, passing tape-to-tape like they’re trying to stitch a hole into our defense. My legs scream at me to slow down, but I dig in harder and square up.
Their left wing gets the puck and drives the corner. I crash into him before he can cut inside. Shoulder to chest. Boards thunder. He tries to fight through it, but I grind him down, keep him pinned just long enough for Dom to strip the puck.
Fifty seconds.
They regroup and come at us again. Dom sends the puck my way. I absorb the hit, keep the puck on my stick, pivot hard, and kill five more seconds just skating along the back wall like a dick before passing it back to Dom.
Coach is screaming something from the bench, but I can’t hear him over the crowd.
The other team floods forward, slick and vicious, desperation in their stride. They’re hungry and they’re fast.
But we’re faster.
Dom and I break into motion. He catches my glance mid-stride, just a flick of his eyes, but I know exactly what he’s about to do. He charges the puck carrier, and I hang back, shadowing the trailer.
Dom hits a guy full-body into the boards, legal but nasty. The puck pops free again. Their winger grabs it, tries to pivot left, but sees me too late. I knock his stick clean out of his hands and rip the puck.
Dom’s already circling behind me like a wolf, and without even looking, I fire it backward off the boards, right into his path. Dom scoops it up, cuts hard across the blue line. Two of their guys lunge for him, not knowing he’s just baiting them like flies to meat.
He drops the puck back. It’s a perfect pass, right on my tape. And I know exactly what he’s done—he’s pulled their D out of position, and now the right lane is open.
I fly in, cut inside one man, slam on the brakes just before the net, and whip it cross-ice again to Dom, who’s already there, stick down, ready.
He doesn’t even stop to aim—just blasts it top shelf.
Bar down. GOAL.
The red light flares behind the net. The arena goes thermonuclear.
I don’t even get the chance to react before Dom fucking slams into me, shoulder to shoulder, gloves still on, adrenaline crackling off him like lightning.
“Nice fucking feed,” he growls in my ear.
“Nice fucking finish.” I grin.
The crowd’s still roaring, waiting for the horn to sound—five seconds left on the clock.
We line back up at center ice. The ref drops the puck. I win the draw, snapping it back to our D. They chip it off the boards, eating the clock. The other team makes one last desperate rush, but we shut it down at the blue line.
The horn blasts.
