Page 85 of Second Shot

I carry the puck through center ice with Gabe flanking me on the right side. The Serpents’ defense tries to pinch, but Gabe times his break perfectly, and my pass finds him just as he hits the zone. One-on-one with their goalie, Gabe doesn’t hesitate. Top shelf, far corner, a shot so precise it looks like he aimed for that exact spot from the moment the puck touched his stick.

Goal. Fifty-three seconds into the game.

Oh, yeah, baby. We’re back.

Our private celebration is quick but meaningful. Gabe grips my shoulders, pulls me in fast, and our helmets knock lightly, and then he’s gone. From the outside, it probably looks like a standard teammate celebration, but to me, it’s redemption.

“Fucking beautiful pass,” he yells over his shoulder.

“Fucking beautiful shot,” I reply, and the grin he gives me is worth every minute of pain we went through to get here.

The Serpents answer back quickly. They’re fighting for their own playoff spot and can’t afford to fall behind early. Their captain, a grizzled veteran named Thompson, beats Nikowith a wrist shot that finds the only hole in his armor.

1-1, and suddenly this feels like the kind of game that gets decided in the final minutes.

The first period becomes a showcase of playoff hockey, fast, physical, every shift meaning something. Gabe and I work the cycle with an instinctive rhythm that surprises even me, our sticks finding each other through traffic while seventeen thousand fans create a wall of sound that vibrates through my chest.

We generate three Grade-A chances, but their goalie robs us each time, making saves so brutal they draw groans from the crowd. When their power forward, a freight train named Williams, lines me up for a hit that could put me in the hospital, Gabe appears out of nowhere, his stick tying up Williams’ hands just long enough for me to slip past and keep possession.

This game’s a brutal grind, but after all I’ve been through recently, the game feels like a gift. The smell of fresh ice and stale beer mingles with the metallic taste of adrenaline on my tongue, and I can feel every nerve ending alive with the electricity that only comes from playoff hockey.

The second period is when everything clicks into place. We’re on the power play, cycling the puck with the kind of patience that drives penalty killers crazy. Petrov quarterbacks from the point while Gabe and I work the flanks,constantly moving, constantly creating new angles.

When the opening comes, their defenseman getting caught watching the puck instead of covering his man, I don’t even have to look to know where Gabe will be. The pass goes right to his wheelhouse, and his one-timer beats their goalie before he can even react.

2-1, and the contingent of Seadragon fans in the building loses their collective mind.

The third period is a masterclass in how to lose a game while still winning everything that matters. Savannah scores twice in the final ten minutes, beautiful goals that Niko has no chance on, plays that happen because sometimes the other team is just better on a given night.

But even down 3-2 with time running out, Gabe and I keep creating chances. We hit two posts, force three incredible saves, and generally make the Serpents’ goalie earn every star of the game.

When the final buzzer sounds, the loss stings for about thirty seconds. Then reality hits: we’re in the playoffs. Fifth seed, but we’re in. Everything we’ve worked for, everything we’ve survived, has led to this moment.

The handshake line with Savannah is respectful, competitive, the kind of mutual respect that comes from a game played at thehighest level. Their captain, Thompson, gives me a firm handshake and a nod.

“See you in the dance,” he says with a little competitive gleam in his eyes

In the locker room afterward, the mood is electric despite the loss. Guys are laughing, music is playing, and Niko, has already started planning our celebration.

“Gentlemen,” Coach Donnelly says, calling for attention. “That’s how you play playoff hockey. Win or lose, you left everything on the ice tonight. I’m proud of every one of you.”

He pauses, his eyes finding mine and Gabe’s across the room.

“Some of you have been through more than others to get here. But that’s what makes a team. Weathering the storms together and coming out stronger.” It’s a little cliché, but we appreciate the sentiment.

The speech continues, but I’m focused on Gabe, who’s sitting at his stall with that quiet satisfaction he gets after games like this. When he catches me looking, he gives me a small smile that makes warmth spread through my chest.

We’re okay. Better than okay. We’re us again.

Two hours later, we’re walking through Savannah’s historic district, five players whoprobably look like tourists but feel like conquerors. The cobblestone streets are lit by gas lamps that cast everything in a warm, golden glow, and the air carries the scent of magnolias and something indefinably Southern.

“This place is like a movie set,” D’Angelo says, craning his neck to look at the antebellum mansions lining the squares.

“Better than a movie set,” Niko replies, already three drinks in. “Movie sets don’t have bars that serve bourbon older than we are.”

Kincaid shakes his head. “Pace yourself, dude. You don’t want to spend the night puking.”

Niko puts his arm around Kincaid’s shoulders. “Awww, he’s worried about me, guys.”

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