Page 28 of Shift Change

The intermission was a blur of heavy breathing and chugging water while Criswell paced like a caged animal, breaking down our attack. He didn’t yell for effect, but when he snapped his fingers, you listened.

“Keep your heads in it,” he barked. “They’re gassed and they’ve got no legs left. If we find ours, we win. Short shifts, high pressure, and for fuck’s sake, finish your chances.”

Easier said than done.

The room pulsed with tension. Holky clapped Logan on the back and chirped Gabe, but the anxiety was still there. So was mine.

When Criswell left, Harpy stepped forward and swept his gaze around the room. “You feel that?” His voice, low and steady, hummed with fire. “That’s twenty minutes between us and the win. And I’ll be goddamned if I let Chicago walk out of here with it.”

Lowhell yeahsrumbled around the room.

“You know what Chicago’s thinking right now?” He let the question hang for a second. “That we’ll let up. Let the pressure drop. But you know what we’re gonna do? We’re gonna go back out there and punch them in the gut. We’re gonna skate like demons, check like our fucking lives depend on it, and finish every goddamn play.”

Someone pounded a fist against his pads. The room came to life as tension rolled into momentum.

“Coach is right,” Harpy continued. “They’re gassed. “So we go show them what a trulygreatteam looks like.” His jaw clenched, and he looked around the room. “Full throttle. No let-up. Every shift, every battle, we take a little more out of them until they’ve got nothing left.”

He raised his voice. “This isourfucking house. Let’s go out there and kick their asses back to Chicago.”

The locker room exploded. Fists pounded the benches like war drums, and a chorus of shouts ricocheted off the walls.

Logan jumped up. “We’ll bury the Ice because we’re the fiercest fucking Warriors who ever lived.”

Harpy called for the battle cry, and for the first time, I put my head back and shrieked as loud as I could. The energy of thirty juiced-up men combined and then detonated. By the time the door swung open, we were on the warpath. We blasted into the arena like we’d been shot out of a cannon.

On the bench, I was vibrating with a mixture of nerves and determination. Sweat rolled down my nape, and I pounded my chest like that might shake the tension loose. I’d been playing my ass off, but the stat sheet didn’t care. I needed a goal or an assist, something to prove I belonged.

The problem was, nothing happened. The score remained 2–2, and by the fifteen-minute mark, I was already dreading overtime. Chicago was a damn machine—fast, physical, and relentless. I’d taken a couple of decent shots, but their goalie swallowed them whole. Now I sat gripping my stick like a lifeline.

Holky’s line was out. He won a clean faceoff in the neutral zone, snapping it back to our D, then peeled off, skating hard. I tracked his movement, the way he cut through open ice with an easy speed that impressed the hell out of me. He caught a pass in stride, dangled around one of Chicago’s D-men, and snapped the puck across the slot to Logan, who fired.

Rebound.

Holky pounced and took a shot, but the goalie got a pad on it and sent it into the corner. The second line pressed on, hungry for a go-ahead goal. For a moment, they had Chicago scrambling, but then one of their defensemen flipped the puck out to center ice.

Holky cursed and skated to the bench, signaling the change. His gaze was fierce when his eyes locked on mine. “Finish it,” he shouted.

Harpy clapped me on the back. “Let’s end this.”

My heart pounded as I vaulted over the boards with Richie and Harpy. Brody and Nels were still backing us up. At the dot, my body kicked into overdrive. Nerves? What fucking nerves? I was Mad Dog, and anxiety had turned into fire.

Chicago’s center won the faceoff, and his left winger took the puck and raced into our zone. We weren’t far behind him. The winger rifled a shot from the point, but Brody got his stick in the lane and deflected it high. The puck popped into the air, but Nels batted it down and knocked it out of danger. A Chicago forward tried to get his stick on it but only succeeded in jamming the puck against the boards.

Harpy battled Chicago’s man and dug it out, then threaded a pass to Richie, who exploded up the wing. I drove through center, my lungs burning from the effort. Richie crossed the blue line and feathered a pass to Harpy, who dragged it across his body and ripped a shot. It beat the goalie, but the goddamn post got in the way. The clang of rubber on iron sent a fresh wave of frustration through me.

Harpy grabbed the rebound and flicked the puck to me near the crease. I wound up, ready to bury it, but my shot caught the goalie’s glove.

I swore and circled back. Nels kept the play alive, sending the puck low to Richie. I cut through the slot, looking for an opening, but before Richie could pass to me, a Chicago D-man crushed him against the glass. The puck skittered free, and one of Chicago’s D-men flicked it up the ice to clear the zone.

“Goddamn fuck!” Harpy yelled, and we all joined in. More swearing, more frustration.

I glanced at the clock. Fifty-two seconds left.

Come on.

I turned on my edge, racing back into position as Brody seized the puck and spun away from a Chicago winger, then sent a saucer pass up to Harpy. We transitioned fast, moving as a unit. I locked in, shaking off the missed chances and resetting my focus.

Harpy crossed the blue line, shielding the puck from a Chicago D-man as I cut wide, angling toward open ice. Richie was streaking down the opposite wing, dragging one of Chicago’s men behind him, and suddenly, I had a clear shot.

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