Page 91 of Pucking One Night Stand
“We hit first. We hit hard. We don’t stop. Every shift, every battle, every second, we own it. We’re not looking for the perfect shot, we’re looking to overwhelm, to bury them, to leave no doubt.”
He nods slowly, deliberately. “Look around you. You’re brothers. You fight for each other. You bleed for each other. You win for each other.”
A final pause.
“Now get the fuck out there and own it.”
The bench scrapes as everyone stands. Helmets snap into place, and gloves are pulled tight.
It’s time.
The tunnel is a throat of concrete and shadows, lit only by the narrow blades of light slashing in from the far end. My skates crack sharply against the rubber mat with every step, steady and deliberate.
Behind me, the guys fall in, silent, tight, a wall of black and silver armor. You can feel the pressure settle on us like a second set of gears.
The air’s thick with sweat, adrenaline, the sting of fresh tape, and wet pads. That chemical tang of the ice just ahead sharpens every breath like glass. I can taste it.
The crowd’s roar is muffled at first, distant thunder behind walls of cinder and steel. But with every step forward, it grows, feeding, swelling, gnawing at the tunnel like it wants to pull us in and swallow us whole.
Arena staff hustle past, their faces tense, clipboards clutched like shields. A door bangs open on the right, coughing up the scent of beer and hot dogs, but it’s lost in the cold that coils through the tunnel. That rink-cold, dry and merciless, the kind that gets into your gloves, your throat, your blood.
Then—there it is. The light at the end. Blinding.
I step through first.
It hits.
The full scream of it. Sixty thousand voices crashing over us, rising in one tidal, brain-rattling surge.
I push forward onto the ice, sharp and clean, freezing underfoot. My blades slice over the surface like it belongs to me.
This is ours.
The PA crackles alive overhead. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Silver State Arena for tonight’s matchup! Your Las Vegas Aces take on their biggest rivals—the Los Angeles Blades! LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE!”
The place detonates. Screams, stomps, chants, it’s one massive organism of noise.
I skate hard toward the bench, the boys pulling in around me. Bishy wastes no time. He grabs jerseys and shoulders, hauling us in tight, our breath fogging between us.
The air stinks of sweat and high voltage.
I drop my voice, but every word lands solid. “We win this for Thumper.”
Sticks pound the ice. Boom. Boom. Boom. Steel and fury.
We break.
I lock into position at left defense. Peters takes the right. Jett crouches at the center, low, like a predator waiting to pounce. McAvoy’s back in the crease, shifting, his gloves twitching. Bishy and Brody are on the wings, ready to tear the Blades apart.
Across from us, LA settles into formation. There’s no noise now. No chaos. Just cold silence and bad intentions.
The ref steps up. He stands like a statue, black and white, one hand holding the puck.
Then—
The hush.
The second stretches, tightens.
