I could barely hearmyself think as I stood in the face-off circle in our arena. The crowd was going wild because, not only was it a playoff game, it was game seven of the final round against the Rangers. Whoever won would be playing for the Cup.
I gripped my stick tighter, eyes locked on the ice in front of me. It was do or die. The referee dropped the puck, and I attacked, winning the drop and sending it to Butcher. He charged in, slamming his body against the boards, creating chaos as he fought for the puck. Orlov snatched it and darted down the ice, weaving through defenders while I trailed behind, anticipating the pass.
Sexton barreled in, throwing his body at the opposing winger to open up space. Orlov had threaded the needle with a pinpoint pass to me, and the puck danced on my blade. Nyström streaked toward the net, trying to open a hole for a shot, but there wasn’t one.
We sent the puck around until Butcher and an opposing defenseman collided, leaving the puck free. I scooped it up, carving through the neutral zone. Every time I faced Baylor, I tried not to think it was him in front of the net. So, I wound up for a blistering slapshot, but a quick poke check from a Rangers’ defenseman stole my thunder.
The puck ricocheted, and we all scrambled for it. Orlov battled in the corner, trying to regain control. Bodies crashed, sticks lashed, but none of us could clear the puck.
Finally, Butcher muscled his way in and got it free, then sent it over to Nyström. He shot at the net and, like the amazing goalie he was, Baylor made a stunning save.
The first period turned into the second and we were still tied at zero when the second period buzzer sounded. Every shift had been a battle and the pressure of winning lingered in the locker room as we caught our breath and refueled.
As the third period began, the puck dropped, and the scramble for possession ensued. I managed to get my stick on it, flicking it toward the boards where Sexton was ready for the quick breakout. We burst into their zone, but the Rangers quickly gained possession.
Once I crossed the blue line, I positioned myself in front of the net, ready to capitalize on any rebounds or deflections. The Rangers’ defense tried to box me out, but I fought for every inch of space. The battle in front of the net mirrored the war in our defensive zone, bodies colliding as we fought for the puck.
I got a piece of it and sent it over to Orlov. With a rush of speed, he drove the puck deep into the Rangers’ territory. I followed, supporting the play and looking for an opening. The Rangers’ defense tightened up, but we cycled the puck, trying to create a scoring opportunity. With a swift pass, I set up Nyström for a shot, but Baylor made another spectacular save.
As the minutes ticked down, and shift changes were made, we all fought hard. When my line was back on the ice, we managed a turnover in the neutral zone. Orlov zipped past defenders, setting up a two-on-one with Sexton. The puck danced between them as they closed in on Baylor. Sexton unleashed a rocket of a shot, but Baylor stopped it, robbing us of the lead once again.
Back and forth we went, end-to-end action that had the crowd on their feet. I blocked a shot from the point, then darted up the ice, creating a breakaway. Baylor was all that stood between me and finally scoring on him. I faked left, then went right, releasing a lightning-quick wrist shot. The puck soared toward the top corner, but Baylor’s glove hand flashed, snatching it out of the air.
I shook my head as I skated past the net, shooting him a grin. “Nice save, but you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” I called out, playfully tapping my stick against the ice.
“You’ll have to try harder than that if you want to get one past me,” he replied. I couldn’t see behind his mask, but I knew he was teasing me just as much as I was teasing him.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’ve got plenty more tricks up my sleeve,” I retorted, flashing him a wink before skating to the face-off circle.
The Rangers won the face-off and hurried down the ice. Butcher raced after them, throwing his body in front of a shot, sacrificing himself for the team. The puck ricocheted off his shin pads, and I sprinted to collect it.
With Nyström on my wing, we surged into their zone. He battled in the crease, trying to distract Baylor. I let loose a low, hard shot. The puck bounced off Baylor’s pads, but Nyström was quick, burying it in the back of the net.
The arena burst into cheers as we took the lead, but we knew it wasn’t over. The Rangers fought back with a vengeance. Baylor stonewalled us, making saves that seemed impossible. The final minutes were a blur of checks and blocked shots.
As the clock wound down to the last minute, the Rangers pulled Baylor for an extra attacker. A chaotic scramble in front of our net developed, bodies sprawling, sticks flailing. Butcher emerged with the puck and cleared it down the ice.
The buzzer sounded, and we erupted in cheers. We had done it. We were advancing to the Cup Finals. The crowd roared as we celebrated on the ice, and then I glanced to see where Ford and Kaylee’s seats were. Their faces held nothing but excitement, and I couldn’t wait to hug my man.
Glancing over my shoulder, I turned to see Baylor skating toward the visitor’s tunnel. Since we had a history together, I quickly skated over to him.
“Hey. Good game.”
He nodded. “Thanks, man. It was a hell of a series.”
“Yeah, it was. You guys fought hard.”
He chuckled. “So did you. I’ll see you around, all right?”
“Yeah, for sure,” I said, extending my hand for a quick shake.
Once he skated off, I returned to my team and then headed for the locker room where the celebration continued.
The guysand I ordered a few rideshares after we were done with all the celebrating in the locker room and post-game interviews and such. Like most times when we wanted to commemorate a big win, we were headed to Flanagan’s. I couldn’t wait. Not only because I was on a high from the win, but also because Ford was meeting us there.
The car I was in with Butcher and Sexton came to a stop in front of the Irish pub. We got out, the cars with the rest of the guys stopping behind us. We all still had adrenaline flowing through us and we couldn’t stop smiling as we walked to the entrance.
As I opened the worn wooden door, the smell of freshly poured Guinness, the clinking of glasses, and the lively conversations mixed. Butcher, Sexton, Orlov, Nyström, Cardinale, and I moved further inside, and the entire place erupted in cheers.
