Page 133 of On Ice

The locker room is tense but not defeated. Coach Daniels makes a few tactical adjustments, but his message is simple: “Empty the tank. Leave nothing for tomorrow.”

The third period begins with a new energy. Torres and Mills are everywhere, breaking up plays defensively and jumping into the rush like they haven’t just played two brutal periods and are running on fumes and willpower. Noah keeps us in it with a spectacular glove save on Westfield that seems to defy physics.

Nine minutes in, the breakthrough we need. Rodriguez draws a hooking penalty with a power move to the net. Our power play, which has been anemic all series, finally clicks. Mills walks the blue line and fires a shot that Jackson tips in the high slot. The puck changes direction just enough to fool Harmon. 1-1.

The arena explodes, the noise physical enough to feel in my chest. Momentum is on our side now, and we press theadvantage. The Titans look suddenly hesitant, their passes a half-second slower, their forechecking less aggressive.

With seven minutes left, I win a battle along the boards and find Rodriguez with a backhand pass. He spins off his check and threads a perfect pass to Mills, who’s pinched down from the point. Mills one-times it past Harmon’s blocker. 2-1 Ice Hawks.

The building reaches a new decibel level I didn’t think possible. On the bench, Torres grabs my jersey, screaming something I can’t hear over the crowd. His eyes are wild with belief.

Six minutes. Five. Four. The Titans push back desperately, throwing everything at us. Noah stands tall, swallowing up shots, controlling rebounds. Every clearance, every blocked shot is met with a roar from the crowd.

With 2:38 left on the clock, they pull Harmon for an extra attacker. Six-on-five. The pressure is relentless. I block a shot with my shin that sends daggers of pain up my leg, but somehow clear the zone. Twenty seconds of respite.

They regroup quickly. Westfield quarterbacking from the point, moving the puck with precision. A shot from the half-wall is blocked by Torres. The rebound squirts to the slot where Alvarez is waiting. His one-timer looks destined for the back of the net, but Noah stretches across with his pad, somehow keeping it out.

The puck bounces to the corner where I battle Westfield, feeling the desperation in his crosscheck against my back. I manage to chip it off the glass and out, buying another fifteen seconds.

One minute left.

The Titans storm back into our zone. Rodriguez loses his stick defending but stays in the lane, blocking a shot with his chest that must leave a bruise the size of a dinner plate. The puck bounces to me, and I see daylight, a chance to seal it with an empty-netter.

I race toward center ice, the puck on my stick, nothing between me and the vacant net. But I hear the frantic strides behind me, Westfield, refusing to concede. His dive is desperate, his stick connecting with the puck just as I release my shot. The puck skitters wide of the empty net.

Thirty seconds.

Back in our zone now, the Titans making one final push. A point shot is blocked by Mills, but the rebound falls to Westfield. He fires through traffic. The puck hits someone, Deck, I think, and changes direction. Noah is already moving the other way.

The world slows down. I see the puck floating toward the open side of the net, see Noah desperately trying to recover, his glove reaching out in what seems like slow motion. The puck strikes the inside of the post with a metallic ring that cuts through the crowd noise like a knife.

And somehow, impossibly, it stays out. Bouncing along the goal line without crossing it. Noah swipes it away with his paddle, and Torres clears it the length of the ice.

Ten seconds.

The Titans can’t regroup in time. Westfield carries it across our blue line with three seconds left, fires a desperation shot that Noah easily gloves.

The horn sounds. Game over.

For a moment, I can’t move, can’t process what’s happened. Then Torres crashes into me, his face wet with tears or sweat or both. Rodriguez leaps onto my back, screaming incoherently. The bench empties, everyone piling toward Noah, who’s raised his arms to the rafters in disbelief.

We’ve done it. The Ice Hawks are Stanley Cup Champions.

Through the chaos, my eyes find the owner’s box. Luca’s not there, there’s just the empty glass where I expected him to be. Surprised, uneasiness shifts though me, but then I’m distracted as Noah almost tackles me with excitement.

The commissioner appears on the ice with the Cup, its silver surface gleaming under the arena lights. The trophy presentation is a blur, handshakes, congratulations, the weight of the Cup as it’s placed in my hands, surprisingly heavy yet somehow lighter than I imagined.

I raise it above my head, feeling the roar of the crowd in my bones. In this moment, everything else falls away, the pain, the exhaustion, the worries about Mom, the complications of loving Luca, all of it. There is only this perfect, crystallized instant of triumph.

As I lower the Cup, preparing to pass it to Deck, the veteran who’s sacrificed more than any of us, I catch Coach’s eye. He grins at me, his face flushed. He’s been at this a long time and we brought the trophy home for him. I’ve never before seen him on the verge of tears, but his eyes are shining suspiciously.

The Cup continues its journey from player to player, each celebration unique and perfect. Noah sinks to his knees, overcome. Rodriguez skates in a circle with it, jubilant. Mills kisses the metal, many gritty years of professional hockey culminating in this moment.

Just off the ice, reporters crowd in behind the ropes, calling my name. I answer on instinct, something about trusting my teammates, something about never giving up. I honestly don’t even know what I say. I’m still inside the game.

“Captain Riley,” one of them asks, “did you ever doubt you’d be here when you were ten points out of a playoff spot in January?”

I think about all we’ve overcome, the early-season struggles, the road losing streak, the injuries. Of course we doubted we could get here. We’re fucking humans, not robots.

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