Page 99 of Chasing The Goal
Third period is hell.
The Knights come out like cornered animals. They score in the first five minutes—2–2. The bench is tense. Every inch of ice is a battlefield.
Then we draw a power play and Connor buries a rebound off a Logan shot—3–2.
We almost breathe.
Until they tie it again with three minutes left. A sloppy bounce, a redirect that skips off a skate and past our goalie.
3–3.
I’m burning.
My legs scream. My lungs feel like they’ve been wrung out. I suck air through my mouthguard and wait. Listen.
Coach calls our line.
“One last push. You know what to do.”
My heart kicks like a drum. I glance down the bench at Connor, then Logan.
Wenod.
One minute left.
We hit the ice like we were built for this moment. The crowd surges as we storm their zone. Logan dumps the puck behind the net and Connor digs in deep, shoulder to shoulder with two Knights.
He wins.
He kicks it free with one skate, spins, and slides it through the traffic.
Right to me.
Left circle. Open lane.
Fifteen seconds.
I don’t think.
I fire. The puck leaves my stick like it knows where to go. It cuts through the chaos and the noise and the weight of every second that led to this one—and buries itself top shelf, glove side.
GOAL.
The world explodes. My knees hit the ice. I throw my arms in the air and scream.
The bench empties.
Logan tackles me first, screaming, “You did it! Prescott, you sick bastard!” Then Connor. Then Darren, slamming into us, yelling incoherently. Everyone’s crying, shouting, shaking each other.
Final buzzer.
HellBlades 4. Knights 3.
Stanley. Cup. Champions.
My gloves are gone. My helmet’s off. I stare up at the lights as they swing and shimmer through the tears in my eyes. The crowd is on its feet. Confetti begins to fall. It sticks to my sweat-slick hair, my jersey, my lashes.
Somewhere in the chaos, someone hands me and logan the Cup.
