Page 41 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Back in the locker room, the energy’s tight but focused. Coach strides in, clipboard under one arm, and fixes each of us with a sharp look.

“Excellent shot, Jessup, but don’t let our lead get to your heads,” he says. “Stick to the system. Support each other. No solo hero plays. We play as a unit or we don’t play at all.”

Parker nods, cracking his neck. “We’re good. We’ve got this.”

“Damn right,” James mutters, slouching on the bench and chugging water. “Let’s finish it.”

Ethan throws a towel at him. “Maybe you finish hydrating first, Shakespeare.”

The room chuckles, but under it all, there’s belief. We’re not hoping anymore. We’re expecting to win. And that’s the difference.

In the second period, things tighten. They tie it up with a nasty top-shelf laser that no one could’ve stopped—not even me. I clench my jaw but let it go. No spiraling. End of the second, it's 2–2.

Back in the locker room, Coach paces slowly in front of us, his eyes sharp, voice firm.

"That was a hell of an intense period. Now finish the job. This is where we win it, right here in the last twenty. Discipline. Support. Trust. Stay sharp, stay hungry."

James pumps a fist. "Let’s go hunting."

Parker grins. "We’re not losing this one."

The room buzzes with tension and readiness. Everyone’s dialed in. We head back out like a pack on the verge of the kill.

And we do just that.

I make a sprawling glove save in the early minutes of the third period. One of those highlight-reel moments where even the other team looks impressed. It buys us the momentum we need.

But that momentum doesn’t last long. Their top-line winger breaks past our defense and buries a wrister to take the lead 3–2. We answer fast as Connor taps one in off a rebound. And, five minutes later, Mikey executes a beautiful pass to James who slaps it right under their goalie’s legs. But they push right back, scoring off a deflection that even I couldn’t read. 4-4.

It’s a battle. Every second matters. Every shift feels like a war.

Then Parker, bleeding from the lip after taking a hit, sets up the final play. Connor feeds him the puck, and somehow, even with three guys draped over him, he buries it. We’re up by one. With under a minute left, their winger cuts across the slot, trying to roof it glove-side, but I read it, drop low, and flash the leather. The puck snaps into my glove with a satisfying thunk. The crowd groans. The bench loses it.

James bangs his stick against the boards. "That’s what I’m talking about!"

Coach shouts, “That’s a fucking save!”

5–4. Final score. Another win.

James yells, “That’s three, baby!”

Ethan’s slamming gloves with Mikey. Coach Stephens is grinning, like, actually grinning.

I just let it sink in. A few weeks ago, this would’ve felt impossible. But now, the pieces are starting to click. We’re climbing out of whatever slump we’d been buried in. And it feels damn good.

***

We hit the hotel lounge that night, a team tradition after an away win. Nothing wild, just apps and drinks and the kind of energy you can only get from a hard-fought victory.

James tries to charm the server, his usual personality at work. “So, you’re saying if I order the pretzel bites and tip well, I get your number too?”

She raises an eyebrow, smirking. “If you tip well, you get pretzel bites. If you stop flirting like it's 2009, I might even bring you extra mustard. Besides, I don't date players, especially ones from out of town."

The table erupts.

“Crushed,” Ethan says. “Brutal.”

James shrugs. “She’s just playing hard to get.”

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