Jett surged forward the second Bracken won the face-off, but his momentum barely carried him a stride before he was swallowed by Florida’s defensive wall. The Barracudas weren’t just aggressive—they wererelentless. Their forwards were fast, their defensemen were brutal, and the second Jett had the puck on his stick, Beauregarde was on him like glue.
It felt like trying to win against his shadow. No matter where he turned, Beauregarde mirrored him, leaning in just enough to throw Jett off balance without drawing a penalty. He had to pass almost immediately every time he touched the puck, and when he didn’t, he paid for it with a hard shove or a stick lift that stole it away.
The tension from the earlier fight hadn’t faded—it hadignitedthe tempo. Everyone on the ice was playing like they had something to prove. Helmets knocked together, skates tore up the ice, and sticks cracked against each other in a flurry of blocks and intercepts.
There were no whistles. No breaks—just five straight minutes of furious, punishing hockey.
By the time Wolf leapt back onto the ice, slamming his stick down hard and barking for the puck, everyone was dripping sweat. Jett barely registered his exhaustion. The burn in his legs and lungs wasaddictive.
He rotated in and out of shifts like clockwork—off the ice, gulping water, wiping his face, and throwing himself right back into the fray. Thelonger they played, the louder the crowd got, a thunderous wall of sound rising with every blocked shot and missed opportunity.
When they hit the ten-minute mark with no break, the arena was practically vibrating. That’s when it happened.
Jett finally broke free.
He saw the opening before it was there—a subtle shift in Florida’s line, just enough to slip past Beauregarde and grab a lead pass from Hellström. The puck hit his tape, and he wasgone, flying down the center lane with all the speed he could muster.
The goalie was in his sights. Jett drew his stick back to shoot—
And his foot washookedfrom behind.
His legs whipped out from under him, and he crashed to the ice, sliding past the crease on his side. He swung his stick instinctively, trying to push the puck toward the net, but without his full weight behind it, it was an easy stop for Shepherd.
The whistle blew.
Jett grunted and pushed himself upright, twisting around to see Beauregarde standing nearby, his expression dark with frustration. His red hair clung to his temples, soaked with sweat, and his jaw was clenched so tight Jett could practicallyhearhis molars grinding.
The refs were on them in seconds, arms extended to keep things from escalating. Players from both teams surged toward the crease, chirping and shouting, sticks tapping the ice and gloves readying to come off. But with Toronto going on the power play, the Toronto players were keeping themselves.
Jett locked eyes with Beauregarde as they were separated, both breathing hard, hearts hammering.
“Beauregarde, in the bin,” said the ref. “And don’t fucking argue today.”
Beauregarde shifted his posture to look threatening, and Jett was already opening his mouth before he could stop himself.
“Plus dur la prochaine fois, ma petite fraise.”
He saw shock register on Beauregarde’s face, followed quickly by a blush that turned every inch of visible skin the same colour as his hair. He didn’t wait to be led to the bin—he skated over on his own and shut himself in there without a chirp in response.
“Florida number 98. Two minutes for interference.”
“The fuck did you say to him?” Hellström asked on his way to the bench.
Jett shrugged, smiling as they repositioned in the Barracudas zone for the puck drop. Cote was back on his left, and they had two minutes to get a goal. He could work with that.
Bracken won them the puck, and Cote surged forward into position alongside Jett. It was like Tic-Tac-Toe: Bracken-Cote-Jett.
There was a loud clang as the puck hit the left corner of the post and went in as smoothly as silk. The Florida fans booed, and the Toronto fans cheered, but Jett couldn’t hear anything over the cries and whooping as his teammates tackled him into the boards.
Wolf was the one who dug him out of the pile so he could celebrate with the bench, smacking him on the back so hard he stumbled. Jett accepted his fist bumps with Cote and Bracken following behind. He was about to go through the gate and sit since his shift had ended, but the guys grabbed him and hauled him over the side into a smothering hug.
“Welcome back, Fraser!”
“Fuck man, that will shut the haters up.”
“Look at Campanelli. He’s so angry, he’s about to piss himself.”
Jett accepted their praise, and he realized that he needed this more than he thought he did. The affirmation he received from his team was one of the better cures to drown out the incessant buzzing of depression and anxiety.
