Page 159 of The Pucking Arrangement

But first—sixty minutes of war.

The Knights are relentless. Forty minutes in, and we’re deadlocked at 2-2, neither team giving an inch.

My lungs burn, legs tight from battling in the corners, trying to contain their top line. Cooper, their star center, has been a menace all night, slipping through coverage like he’s got the puck on a string. Every shift, I’m in his face, cutting off his space, throwing my weight into him. But he keeps coming. Keeps finding ways to slip through.

I drop to one knee, blocking another shot, the puck hammering just above my knee pad. Pain flares, hot and sharp, but I shove it down. No room for weakness. Not tonight.

“Nice block,” Adam pants as we change on the fly. “Cooper’s looking for you now.”

Good. Let him come. Let him try.

The second intermission can’t come fast enough. I skate to the bench, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes. The locker room is a mix of exhaustion and resolve—guys sprawled on the benches, sucking down water, stretching out cramping muscles.

Coach Novak stands at the front, hands braced on his hips, his voice a controlled growl. “Twenty minutes. You want your name on that Cup? You win in twenty fucking minutes.”

No one speaks. No one needs to.

I sit, rolling my shoulders, trying to keep my legs from locking up. Across the room, Liam catches my eye. He doesn’t say anything—just nods.

We hit the ice for the third, and they come out flying. They’re desperate—just like us. They cycle the puck low, working our defense, waiting for a crack.

I take a crushing hit along the boards, my teeth clacking together with the impact. I shake it off, plant my feet, and step up at our blue line just as their winger tries to cut inside.

Not tonight.

I bury him, sending him sprawling, the puck slipping free. The crowd explodes, feeding on the violence, the raw intensity of two teams leaving everything on the ice.

Somewhere in the madness, the lines change, fresh legs jumping over the boards. Vegas is pressuring hard, and we’re absorbing every hit, every shot, but then?—

Liam threads a perfect pass to Finn, who skates in alone and buries it top shelf before the goalie can react.

3-2.

The Garden detonates as the red light flares, twenty thousand voices crashing over me like a tidal wave. Finn’s mobbed at the boards, arms thrown wide in triumph. For the first time all night, we have the lead.

We skate back to the bench, breathless. Coach is barking orders, but his voice is almost drowned out by the arena’s frenzy. The tension is razor-sharp now—one mistake, and the Knights will make us pay.

They push back immediately, their forecheck suffocating. Every shift is a battle, every second stretching longer. I clear a rebound, take another hit, feel the sting of another blocked shot, but I don’t let up.

Four minutes left.

I intercept an overeager pass at our blue line, flick it to Liam. Join the rush.

Two-on-two.

Their defense backs up, respecting Liam’s speed. He looks left, sells the fake, then slides it back to me at the hash marks.

One chance.

The puck hits my tape like it belongs there. I don’t think. Don’t hesitate. Just release.

Top corner. Blocker side.

The red light flashes.

4-2.

The Garden detonates, a tidal wave of sound rolling over me, shaking the ice beneath my skates.

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