Page 32 of Pucking One Night Stand
Why the hell don’t I have a good feeling about tonight?
I brush it off, roll my neck, and glance around.
Thumper cracks his own like he’s trying to shake the doubt out of it.
Bishy exhales through his mouth, sharp, like it’s the only way to stop his hands from shaking. He taps his stick once against his gloves. Then again. Rhythm. Control.
McAvoy shifts from side to side, his skates squeaking slightly, breathing through his mask like he’s meditating and about to explode all at once.
And Brody…that damn mouth guard again. Between his teeth, always chewing like it’s the only thing keeping his nerves from boiling over.
McCullum walks beside Danny, his voice low and controlled. “Focus. No distractions. We’ve got one job tonight.”
The tunnel opens ahead of us. Light spills in. Bright. Blinding. And then—
The roar. The Royal Arena is alive, and the crowd’s already on their feet. The boards vibrate under the weight of stomping. Massive screens overhead flash clips from our last face-off with these bastards. Hits. Goals. Fights. The scoreboard hangs above the rink, clean for now. Zeros staring down. Daring us to change them.
“Ladies and gentlemen… make some noise for your VANCOUVER STORMHAWKS!” The announcer's voice booms through the PA. The home crowd loses their minds.
The Stormhawks pour onto the ice, a streak of blue and silver. Their jerseys catch the light and shimmer. A storm. That’s what they want to be. They want to own this place.
I swallow hard. Loads of nerves. Not fear, but plenty of intensity. Like every atom in me knows this one’s going to go the full three rounds and then some.
The voice doesn’t pause. “And now…hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada…your LAS VEGAS ACES!”
The crowd shifts. Cheers…yeah, there are a few. But the boos? Louder. Sharper. It’s their ice. For now.
We step out, one by one, and the cold bites straight through my socks, through my skates, and straight into bone.
Light blasts across the ice in pulses. The speakers shake the air. My chest tightens.
We glide to the bench. Sticks tap against the boards in time with the building tension.
“Let’s go!” Thumper yells.
McCullum pulls us into a tight huddle. “We set the tone. First hit, first play. Let’s own this ice.”
Brody's nod is quick, clipped. “Eyes up. Stormhawks love fast puck movement. Cut them off early.”
Danny slaps my shoulder. “Mitchell, lock-in. Get in their heads.”
I nod once. No words. Just tighten the grip on my stick and look out across the rink.
They’re lining up. Vancouver’s ready.
Foster, their captain, is already staring me down. That smug posture. Like he’s already added the win to their record. I stare right back.
We skate forward.
McAvoy taps the post twice. Settles into his crease. No flinch. All fire.
Thumper is crouched and centered at the faceoff circle. Laser-focused on the puck.
The ref steps in, puck in hand. He looks at both centers. No words. Just that look.
I skate into position beside Peters.
Okay… Steady breathing. Focus.
