Page 90 of Second Shot

“Don’t give them what they expect,” he growls. “Make them regret watching tape. Makethem regret thinking they know us. Let’s win this game, boys.”

“Yes, Coach.” Petrov claps his gloves together once. “Time to hunt.”

Twenty minutes later, we’re standing on the ice, and I’ve never felt pressure like this. The arena is electric, every seat filled with fans who’ve waited their entire lives for this moment. The national anthem gives me chills, and when I look down the line at Ryan during the ceremony, he’s got that focused intensity that means he’s ready for war. He inspires me.

The puck drops, and immediately I can feel the difference. This isn’t just playoff hockey anymore, this is the Stanley Cup Finals, where every mistake gets magnified and every opportunity could be the one that changes everything.

Savannah comes out hitting everything that moves. Their captain, Thompson, sets the tone thirty seconds in with a thunderous check on Foster that echoes through the arena like a gunshot. The message is clear: they’re not intimidated by our home crowd or our momentum from the Conference Finals.

“Didn’t know they let figure skaters into the playoffs,” Thompson chirps at Ryan during the first TV timeout, skating close enough that his words carry over the crowd noise. “Hope your team doesn’t regret the trade.”

Ryan doesn’t take the bait, but I can see his jaw tighten. Thompson’s the kind of veteran who knows exactly which buttons to push, and he’s clearly done his homework on Ryan’s journey to get here.

The first period is a chess match, both teams feeling each other out, testing systems, looking for weaknesses. Their goalie, a brick wall named Martinez, has the kind of calm presence that screams “been here before.” When I get my first quality look five minutes in, he doesn’t even flinch, just squares up and swallows the shot like it’s routine.

“This guy’s good,” Ryan mutters as we skate back to regroup.

He’s right. Martinez moves like he’s got all the time in the world, never rushed, never rattled. Every save looks effortless, which is usually the sign of a goalie in the zone.

We get the first goal midway through the period on a power play that develops beautifully. Petrov wins the draw, slides it back to Marlowe at the point, and the veteran defenseman threads a pass to Ryan in the slot that splits two penalty killers. Ryan’s shot is perfect. Low blocker side, exactly where Martinez can’t get to it.

The building erupts, seventeen thousand people on their feet screaming their lungs out. But even as we celebrate, I notice Thompson skating past Ryan with a cold smile.

“Lucky bounce, pretty boy,” Thompson says. “Won’t get any more of those.”

The lead lasts exactly four minutes. Savannah ties it on a play that starts with Thompson winning a board battle against Knox, muscling our enforcer off the puck like he’s a junior player. Their winger picks up the loose puck and fires a shot that deflects off Cheung’s skate, changing direction just enough to fool Niko completely.

“Shit happens,” Marlowe calls out, trying to keep everyone’s heads up. But I can see the frustration in our guys’ faces. That’s the kind of goal that kills momentum, especially at home.

The second period becomes a war. Both teams start finishing every check, competing for every loose puck like it’s Game 7. The crowd noise is constant now, a wall of sound that makes communication almost impossible.

Savannah takes the lead eight minutes into the period on a goal that comes from nowhere. Their third-line center, a journeyman named Sharrod, gets behind our defense on a broken play and beats Niko with a backhand that finds the only hole available. It’s a veteran goal, the kind that comes from being in the right place when chaos breaks out.

The deficit lights a fire under our crowd, and for the next ten minutes the building sounds like it might actually collapse. Every save Nikomakes draws cheers that vibrate through the concrete, every hit by our guys gets the fans on their feet. The energy is intoxicating, almost overwhelming.

But Savannah weathers the storm. They’re built for moments like this. They’re experienced, disciplined, unwilling to get caught up in the emotion. Thompson’s leadership is evident in how they respond to our pressure, always making the safe play, never forcing anything.

“Your boys look tired,” Thompson chirps at Ryan during a scrum in front of their net. “Long season catching up to you, kid?”

This time Ryan responds, but not with words. On the next shift, he throws a check on Thompson that sends the Savannah captain into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. The crowd loses its mind, and Thompson gets up slowly, his smile grudging.

“There we go,” he bellows. “Now we’re playing hockey.”

We tie it up with six minutes left in the third. Ryan carries the puck through the neutral zone with that speed that makes defensemen hesitate, drawing two Savannah players toward him before sliding a perfect pass across to me breaking down the right wing.

The shot I take is pure instinct. A one-timer, top shelf, exactly where Martinez can’t reach. Thered light blazes, the crowd explodes, and Ryan crashes into me with enough force to knock us both off balance.

“Fucking beautiful,” he shouts when he skates past, and for a moment it feels like we’re destined to win this thing.

But destiny, it turns out, doesn’t account for deflections.

With ninety seconds left, Savannah gets a shot from the point that hits three different players before ending up in our net. Niko never sees it coming. The puck caroms off Rawlins’ shin, then Brant’s stick, then somehow finds its way past our goalie’s outstretched glove.

The silence in the arena is deafening. Thousands of people who were screaming thirty seconds ago now sit in stunned disbelief as Savannah celebrates their go-ahead goal.

We pull Niko with forty seconds left, throwing everything we have at their net. Ryan gets a shot that Martinez somehow gloves out of midair. I fire one that hits the post and stays out. Foster creates a scramble in front that comes within inches of tying the game.

But sometimes inches might as well be miles.

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