Page 114 of On Ice

Vasquez flashes the leather, somehow getting a piece of it. The crowd rises in appreciation of the robbery, but I catch the slight bobble as he tries to secure the puck. It drops from his glove, sitting in the blue paint for a heartbeat.

Jackson, crashing the net, gets his stick on it just as Vasquez dives backward. The puck squirts free, sliding toward the open side—

Thompson sweeps it away at the last possible moment, inches from crossing the line.

“So close.” Jackson pounds the glass in frustration.

Two minutes remaining. Coach signals Noah to be ready for the extra attacker. We need one more offensive zone faceoff.

The Guardians are content to defend now, stacking four players across their blue line. We dump it in, Rodriguez winning the foot race to negate the icing. I battle along the half-wall, buying time for our defensemen to activate.

Torres pinches down, keeping the cycle alive. The clock shows 1:30 when Coach finally calls Noah to the bench. Six-on-five.

“Spread them out,” Mills calls, quarterbacking from the point.

We work the puck around the perimeter, Rodriguez to me, back to Torres at the point, across to Mills, down to Jackson at the goal line. The Guardians rotate with us, their box collapsing tighter with each pass.

The crowd is on its feet now, sensing the kill. A minute left.

Mills winds up for a one-timer off Torres’ feed, but Lindsey blocks it, the puck ricocheting toward center ice. Rodriguez hustles to prevent the empty-netter, buying us another chance.

Torres makes a desperate pinch to keep it in at the blue line, but Marchenko anticipates it, chipping the puck past him. Suddenly it’s a Guardians’ two-on-one against Mills, our last man back.

Mills plays it perfectly, taking away the pass, forcing Lindsey to shoot from an angle. Noah’s abandoned net looms empty behind them.

Lindsey fires and hits the post. The puck caroms all the way down the ice for an icing with 38 seconds left.

One last gasp. Coach calls timeout, diagramming a set play. My heart hammers against my ribs as I gulp water, legs burning from the extended shift.

“Win the draw clean,” Coach tells me. “Rodriguez, find the seam. Mills will be activated off the faceoff.”

Back on the ice, I settle over the dot in the Guardians’ zone, facing Lindsey again. The official hesitates, making sure both teams are set. The tension is palpable.

The puck drops. I win it clean back to Torres, who touches it quickly to Mills crashing down from the point. Mills fires through traffic, but the shot goes wide, rimming around the boards.

Rodriguez battles for it, keeping the play alive. Twenty seconds remaining.

We reset. Torres fires from the point. Blocked. Jackson retrieves, finds me in the slot. I fake a shot, then slide it to Rodriguez with a clear lane—

His one-timer is deflected high into the netting by Vasquez’s shoulder. Faceoff with 7.9 seconds left.

One final chance. I’m gasping for air now, legs cement, but there’s no time for a change. The entire building knows I’m taking this draw. Lindsey crouches opposite me, eyes locked on mine.

The puck drops. I tie him up, feeling Rodriguez swooping in to help. The puck squirts toward the boards where Jackson battles, sending it back to Reeves at the point.

Three seconds.

Reeves winds up, firing through a maze of bodies. I’m battling at the edge of the crease, Thompson’s stick across my mid-section. I feel the puck glance off my shin pad, changing direction.

Vasquez lunges desperately—

The horn sounds before I can see if it went in. The referee immediately waves it off: no goal.

The Guardians celebrate while the officials review the play, but I already know. We were a fraction of a second too late. The clock hits zeros just before the puck crosses the line.

Final score: Guardians 3, Ice Hawks 2.

The handshake line is a blur of platitudes. “Good game... tough one... nice battle.” My jaw is clenched so tight it aches.

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