Page 90 of Hearts on Ice
Pucks off the post, one off my mask, another through traffic that I barely caught with the edge of my pad.
They drew first blood—one-timer, top corner, screened so bad I saw it half a second too late.
1–0, Chicago.
Their fans went wild.
But on the bench, I caught Drew’s voice—steady, calm, that coach tone that could rebuild a man in a sentence.
“Shake it off. Reset.”
I did.
Late in the period, we got a power play. Justin won the draw, slid it to Tank, who faked a shot and fed Devin at the crease. Tap in. Beautiful.
Tie game.
The sound of silence from the stands was sweeter than any cheer.
When the horn blew, I skated to the bench, heart pounding, sweat soaking through my gear.
1–1.
One period down, two to go.
Second period. Chicago came harder.
They hit heavier, threw pucks from impossible angles, tried to rattle me. It didn’t work.
I was in that zone where the world narrowed to light, motion, instinct. Stick save. Blocker save. Pad save. Catch glove snapping shut like a trap.
Then it happened. Midway through the second, their captain got a breakaway. Crowd on its feet. He deked left, right, tried to go five-hole. I dropped, stuck the pad out—clack!—and smothered it with my glove. The place erupted, boos shaking the rafters. I stood, tossed the puck to the ref, and let my heartbeat slow.
Two shifts later, we got another rush—Jester to Justin to Sam.
Goal.
2–1, Grizzlies.
Sam threw his arms wide like he’d scored the PHL Cup winner. Tank smacked his helmet, half proud, half warning. The period ended with Knights fans booing so loud the boards vibrated under my skates. We filed into the locker room up by one, and Drew stood in the doorway, waiting.
“Good,” he said, eyes sweeping the room. “That’s the response I wanted. You’re playing your game now. Don’t let them pull you into theirs.” He didn’t need to shout. Every man in that room was locked in.
He looked at me last. Just a flicker of something unspoken. Pride. Trust. Maybe more.
Third period. The last twenty minutes felt like war.
Chicago threw everything at us—odd-man rushes, high tips, cross-crease passes that made my stomach clench.
I played by muscle memory and willpower.
With five minutes left, we drew another power play. Devin passed to Justin, slapshot from the circle—bar down, in.
3–1.
The noise in that building broke. You could feel the anger from the home fans, the way their chants got meaner, faster. Chicago answered with one late goal, a rebound I couldn’t control.
3–2.
