Page 122 of Puck Your Friend

Coach calls a switch. I coast to the boards, chest still tight, jaw locked as I climb over. He doesn’t shout. Just paces behind the bench, arms folded tight, his silence makes it worse. Frustration hums under the surface. I feel it, too. We let them take the first blood and so early on.

Two shifts later, I’m back on.

First line reloaded. Wes wide right. I’m center. Tyrell pushes left wing, fast and pressuring the half wall. Teo and Logan anchor our defense behind the play. Jace steadies himself in net, one hand tapping the post.

We skate toward center. Kincaid meets me at the dot with a lazy smirk, like he’s already won. The puck drops. I react a second too slow. He punches it back to their winger.

They press the zone hard, but we’re faster. Teo cuts in quick, throwing his weight through the hit. Their winger stumbles, and the puck rolls free. Logan’s already there and snatches it up, snapping it across the ice.

I chase it down and quickly close the gap.

Their left D tracks fast. He reaches it first, fumbles the handle, and glances up too late. I’m already on him.

He stutters, and when he pivots, his stick clips the inside of my skate. I go down hard, shoulder taking most of it. I don’t give my body or brain time to register any pain. I can feel after the game is over.

The whistle blares across the ice.

I’m up in a flash, heat crawling under my collar. I spin, ready to shove him, but my gut tells me to hold.

I smirk as he gets a penalty for tripping. Two minutes in the box. Sloppy under pressure, and the ref caught it. We go on the power play. One man up, with full control. We’ve got two minutes to make it count.

I crouch low over the dot. The ref checks both sides, then drops the puck.

It hits the ice and I strike first, quick snap to my backhand. It’s a clean win. My stick catches it, and I keep possession. I skate it across the zone, cutting along the top of the circle. I dip my shoulder to sell the shot, freeze their right D just long enough, then rip it.

It heads in top shelf, just like I wanted it to.

The goalie reacts late and the net ripples with the hit.

The crowd explodes.

1–1.

I glance toward the glass. Frankie keeps her camera trained on me, grinning wide as she holds up her thumb. Now I’m pumped. We’re going to kick their asses. I want to win, for her and for us.

We’re tied 3–3. Four minutes are left on the clock.

Coach leans in behind us on the bench. “We’re gonna play it safe. Kill the clock and prep for OT.”

I don’t answer. Just nod. Not because I agree, but because there’s no time to argue.

I hop the boards.

First line hits the ice one last time. Wes drives up the right. Tyrell cuts across, dragging their RD out of position. Teo and Logan rotate behind, tight and ready. Jace shifts in the net, tapping the post with his stick.

Faceoff in the offensive zone. I square up and crouch low. My legs burn. Sweat drips beneath the collar of my pads. It doesn’t matter as everything sharpens into focus.

The puck drops.

I win it clean. Like taking candy from a baby.

As soon as the puck hits my blade, I sell a quick juke left. He bites, like I knew he would. I drag wide across the circle, forcing him to chase outside his lane. I catch a flash of Wes pulling their left defense deep, clearing my angle. Tyrell cuts in behind me, keeping the D split.

I head to the wall. Their winger lunges, trying to pin me. I pivot at the last second and angle the puck off the boards, right where it needs to hit.

I push off hard, curling after it at full speed. Everything narrows down to the puck and the space ahead. It rebounds right where I need it, and I catch it mid-stride, my blade cushioning the pickup.

Their defenseman shifts to intercept. I fake high like I’m taking the perimeter, then slash inside. He adjusts too late. His shoulder clips my hip, but I’m already through.

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