Page 41 of Second Shot

Better not to get too invested in whatever this is.

Chapter Ten

Ryan

The Timber Dome feels like stepping into a lumberjack’s fever dream. Twelve thousand Twin Pines fans, dressed in flannel and denim, create a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest, their voices echoing off wooden beams and rustic architecture that makes the place feel more like a hunting lodge than an NHL arena.

Eight minutes into the first period, and the familiar knot of dread is already tightening in my gut. We haven’t scored yet. They haven’t either, but that’s no comfort. Feels like a matter of time. The weight of expectations presses down on me, heavy as the low ceiling of this ridiculous arena. Two games, two losses. If we lose tonight, I’m officially the guy they wasted prospects and draft picks on.

I steal a glance at the scoreboard: 0–0, 11:47 left in the first. I try to shake off the mounting panic. Across the circle, Gabe adjusts his stick and shoots me a quick look that’s probably meant to be reassuring, but I can see the strain on his face. This game isn’t just about me. The entire team needs this win if we’re going to make theplayoffs.

“Breathe, Caldwell,” Gabe says to me, just loud enough for me to hear over the crowd noise.

I nod to acknowledge his words, and I take his advice, sucking in a few deep, calming breaths. He’s right. I’m tensing up and getting in my head. I know how to play hockey, and psyching myself out won’t help anything. I’m grateful he’s here on the ice with me. Ever since that night at his house, something’s shifted between us. Not just the physical connection, though that’s been incredible, but a deeper understanding of one another that translates directly onto the ice.

Petrov wins the draw clean, pulling the puck back to Marlowe at the point. I’m already moving before the pass comes, reading the play the way Gabe does, anticipating where the opportunity will develop instead of just reacting to where the puck is now.

The Timberwolves’ defense is exactly what their reputation suggests, big, mean, and willing to finish every check regardless of whether they have the puck. Their left defenseman, a mountain of a man whose nameplate reads “KOWALSKI,” tries to line me up for a hit that would possibly take me out of the game.

But I slip past him just as Marlowe’s pass finds my stick, and suddenly I’m carrying the puck into their zone with nothing but open ice ahead of me.

“Wheels,” Foster shouts from the bench, and I can hear the excitement building in our guys’ voices.

The Twin Pines goalie, some rookie named Bennett who’s been playing out of his mind lately, comes out to challenge the angle. I fake the shot, drawing him down, then look for Gabe cutting toward the net.

He’s exactly where he should be, stick ready, and my pass finds him with the kind of precision that comes from hours of practice and growing trust. But their defenseman gets a piece of it, deflecting the puck just enough to throw off Gabe’s timing.

The shot goes wide, and I rap my stick against the ice, biting back frustration.

“Next one,” Gabe calls, giving my shin pad a quick tap with his stick as he skates by.

The reassurance helps, but I can still feel the pressure building like a tea kettle. Every missed opportunity feels magnified. Every mistake is like evidence that maybe I really am the problem. And even if I’m not, people need someone to blame, and I’m the new guy.

Twin Pines answers back with a rush that has Niko scrambling to make a save that somehow defies physics. Their right wing, a grizzled veteran named Hutchinson who looks like he chops wood for fun, gets a rebound thathe fires at our net from point-blank range. Niko’s glove snaps across his body, robbing what should have been a sure goal.

“Holy shit, Niko,” D’Angelo screams from our bench. “That was highway robbery.”

The save gets our tiny section of fans on their feet, yelling their heads off against the wall of home crowd noise.

The rest of the first period becomes a grinding battle of attrition. Twin Pines throws everything they have at us, trying to establish their physical dominance early. Knox drops the gloves with their enforcer after a questionable hit on Kincaid, landing a beautiful uppercut that gets our small contingent of fans on their feet, screaming their support.

But we go into the first intermission still tied 0-0, and I can hear the tension in Coach Donnelly’s voice as he starts his between-periods speech. I desperately want to erase that frustration, but I’m terrified I can’t get it done.

“We’re playing their game,” he says, pacing in front of the whiteboard. “Getting bogged down in the corners, trying to out-muscle guys who’ve been doing this longer. We need to use our speed. Make them chase us.”

His eyes find mine across the room. “Caldwell, you’re thinking too much out there.Trust your instincts. Trust your linemates. The goals will come.”

The second period starts with more of the same, physical, grinding hockey that favors the home team. But something starts to click around the ten-minute mark. Maybe it’s muscle memory from all those practices, or maybe it’s the way Gabe keeps finding me with passes that shouldn’t be possible, but suddenly the game feels less frantic.

We’re cycling the puck in their zone, wearing down their defense with quick passes and constant movement. Petrov controls the play from behind their net while Gabe and I work the flanks, creating space and opportunities that weren’t there before.

Gabe taps his stick once, and I know exactly what it means.

I break toward the net just as Petrov slides the puck to Gabe in the corner. Their defenseman commits to stopping the cross-ice pass, but Gabe’s already moving, carrying the puck toward the goal line and drawing both defenders with him.

The pass comes at the perfect moment, a backhand feed that finds me alone in the slot with nothing but net to shoot at.

Bennett makes a desperate lunge across the crease, but my shot finds the top corner before he can get there.

---