Page 92 of Second Shot

As we celebrate, Ryan skates past Thompson with a cold smile.

“Jitters are gone, old man,” he says. “Maybe it’s time for you to book a room at a nursing home.”

Thompson is conspicuously quiet.

We never give the lead back. Niko shuts the door the rest of the way, and late in the third, Foster buries an empty-netter that seals it.

The 4–2 win feels like redemption. Our crowd is electric, our confidence restored, and Thompson’s smug smile suddenly looks less confident.

Games 3 and 4 in Savannah are a split that could have gone either way. We steal Game 3 with solid defensive play and timely scoring, then drop Game 4 in a tight 1–0 battle that reminds everyone just how good their goalie, Martinez, really is. Game 5 back home is a statement: a 5–2 win with our offense finally clicking on all cylinders and Niko standing tall when we need him most.

Which brings us to tonight. Game 6. Savannah. Winner takes the Cup.

The Coastal Coliseum feels different than it did three weeks ago when we ended the regularseason here. The crowd is louder, angrier, desperate. They know this might be their last chance to see their team play this season, and the energy is almost violent in its intensity.

“Just another game,” Petrov says in the locker room before we take the ice, but nobody believes him. This isn’t just another game. This is everything we’ve worked for our entire hockey career. But I appreciate the effort on his part to calm us all the hell down. Even if it didn’t work.

The national anthem feels endless, each note stretching like taffy while my heart hammers against my ribs. When I look down the line at Ryan, he’s in the zone. I can see it in his eyes. But there’s something else there too, a kind of desperation that mirrors my own. We can’t let this slip away. Not now. Not when we’re this close.

The puck drops, and immediately I can feel Savannah’s desperation matching our own. They come out fighting, throwing everything they have at us in the first ten minutes. Niko makes three saves, but their pressure is relentless. He can’t hold them off forever.

The first goal comes against the run of play. We’re actually generating some offense when their defenseman pinches down and steals the puck from Foster at our blue line. The odd-man rush develops quickly, two-on-one with Marlowe back, and their winger makes a perfectpass across that beats Niko cleanly. Niko looks devastated. He can’t even hid it.

1-0 Savannah, and the building erupts like they’ve already won the Cup.

“Settle down. Don’t get in your head,” Marlowe calls during the TV timeout, but I can see the concern in his eyes. “Plenty of time.”

But time feels elastic when you’re chasing in Game 6. Every shift stretches forever, every mistake gets magnified, every opportunity feels like it might be your last.

We tie it up in the second period on a power play that showcases everything we’ve built together. Ryan and I work the cycle like we’re reading each other’s minds, creating space and confusion until their penalty kill breaks down. When the opening comes, Ryan’s pass finds me with surgical precision, and my one-timer beats Martinez before he can react.

Fuck yeah.

1-1, and our small contingent of fans in the building makes enough noise for ten times their number.

But Savannah answers back just three minutes later. Thompson, because of course it’s Thompson, scores on a rebound that bounces off three different players before landing on his stick two feet from our goal line. The veteran captaincelebrates like he’s twenty years younger, pumping his fist and screaming at their crowd.

2-1 Savannah, and suddenly the weight of the moment feels crushing.

The third period becomes an exercise in controlled desperation. We throw everything we have at Martinez, generating chance after chance, but the veteran goalie is playing the game of his life. Ryan hits the post. I force a save that draws gasps from the crowd. Foster gets a breakaway that Martinez somehow stones with a pad save that seems superhuman.

With five minutes left, the fear starts creeping in for real. This is really happening. It’s slipping away from us. We’re really going to lose the Stanley Cup Finals in six games, one win away from everything we’ve dreamed about.

Coach feels the panic starting to take hold and calls timeout. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. When he steps into the huddle, the noise of the crowd fades behind the weight of his presence.

“Forget the scoreboard,” he says, looking each of us dead in the eye. “Forget the clock. This isn’t about numbers now. It’s about heart. You boys have plenty of that. It’s about the next shift. One shift at a time. Play your game. Trust the guy next to you. And remember, no onegaveyou this moment. You took it. Youearnedevery second of it. Now finish the job.”

I don’t know if it’s Coach’s speech or if God just took pity on us, but the next shift is magic. Ryan carries the puck through the neutral zone with that deceptive speed that makes defensemen hesitate, drawing two Savannah players toward him before sliding a perfect pass to me breaking down the right wing. But instead of shooting, I see Petrov trailing the play, and my pass finds our captain with time and space he hasn’t had all night.

The shot is perfect, low glove side, exactly where Martinez can’t reach. The goal ties the game with 3:47 left, and even in this hostile building, you can hear our celebration echo off the rafters.

2-2, and suddenly overtime in Game 6 of the Stanley Cup Finals.

The intermission feels like an eternity. Guys sit in the locker room trying to process the magnitude of what’s coming next. The room is silent, tense, focused. Not the usual “pep talk” vibe. We rest, hydrate, retape sticks, quietly visualize. This is it. Sudden death hockey for the Stanley Cup. No shootouts, no gimmicks. It’s played in 20-minute periods until someone scores. One goal wins it all.

Three minutes in, Savannah gets the first real chance. Their power forward gets behind our defense and goes in alone on Niko, but our goalie makes a save that I could kiss him for. Adesperate pad stack that somehow keeps the puck out.

“Holy shit, Niko,” Foster screams as we clear the rebound.

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