Page 137 of Triple Play

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The puck hits the back of the net so fast I almost miss it.

Goal. 3-2 Crestmont.

This time Grant does celebrate. Wyatt and Jordie crash into him and they’re all laughing, helmets pressed together, and I’m filming it on my phone because this moment—this exact moment—needs to be remembered.

By the third period, I’ve completely lost my voice from screaming. My throat feels raw, scratched up from the inside, but I can’t stop.

4-3 Crestmont.

Then 4-4.

Then 5-4, and I’m on my feet with everyone else, hands gripped together so tight my knuckles ache.

Back and forth, back and forth. No one can hold a lead for more than thirty seconds.

Two minutes left on the clock and it’s 5-5, tied up with everything on the line.

The buzzer sounds for the end of regulation.

Overtime.

“I can’t watch,” I tell Teddy.

“Yes you can.”

“I’m gonna throw up.”

“Do it quietly. Don’t embarrass them.”

The overtime period is five minutes of pure chaos.

Grant’s line is out first. Wyatt’s on defense. Jordie’s rotating.

Three minutes in, Wyatt gets the puck. He’s flying down ice, two defenders on him, nowhere to pass.

Except—

He sees Grant. Makes this impossible pass that threads between two guys and lands perfectly on Grant’s stick.

Grant’s got the goalie one-on-one.

Everyone in the arena is on their feet.

He shoots.

The puck hits the back of the net.

Game over.

Crestmont wins.

The arena detonates. Players pour off the bench. Fans are screaming. Someone’s throwing a hat on the ice.

And Grant—Grant’s being mobbed by his team. Wyatt and Jordie get to him first. They’re all tangled together, helmets off, laughing and shouting and—

Grant looks up. Finds me again.

Points.

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