Page 66 of Hockey Nanny

We slapped helmets, a familiar ritual that sparked something old and reliable. As we skated back into position, my legs felt lighter, timing snapping back into place.

Whatever I’d left in Vegas found its way back to me.

Game on.

The next stretch turned brutal.

Tampa stopped pretending they wanted a clean game and started hunting instead. Every zone entry came with a shoulder. Every board battle ended with someone jammed hard enough to rattle teeth. I welcomed it this time. I finished the first hit I’d passed up earlier, drove a winger off the puck in our end, and felt Boone latch onto the loose play immediately.

That was the switch.

We rolled lines with purpose after that. I won a draw clean back to Dawson, peeled off, took the return pass through the middle, and carried it deep enough to force their defense to collapse. Boone slipped behind coverage, stick down, eyes up. I threaded it through traffic and he buried it far side before their goalie could reset.

Tie game.

The building got loud. Not hostile loud. Electric.

Tampa answered with speed, catching us on a change and sneaking one past our backup on a broken look. Dawson slammed his stick against the boards once, then pointed at me on the way back to center. I nodded. No words.

We answered with pressure instead of panic.

I drove the net on the next shift, drew both defensemen with me, then dropped the puck back into the slot without looking. Dawson stepped into it and ripped it through bodies, past pads, pure and clean. He didn’t celebrate. Just skated past our bench and tapped the glass once.

By the third, everyone was breathing fire.

I took a high hit along the wall and stayed upright, spun out of it, chipped the puck forward to Boone, and chased. He waited half a beat longer than Tampa expected, then kicked it back to me cutting hard between the circles. I snapped it home before the goalie could square.

We went up by one.

They tied it again five minutes later on a power play that had our bench barking and our coach pacing like he wanted to jump the boards himself. I sat there, helmet on, gloves clenched, watching Tampa celebrate like they’d already won.

They hadn’t.

Late in the period, Dawson blocked a shot that stung enough to make him limp for a stride, but he stayed out. I won the next faceoff straight back, Boone flew down the wing, and I followed as the late option. Boone drew coverage and sent it across ice, right onto my tape.

I didn’t hesitate.

The shot went high glove, clean, decisive.

4–3.

The final minutes blurred into muscle memory and instinct. Clearing attempts. Broken plays. Tampa threw everything they had at the net while we answered with bodies, sticks, and timing that felt welded together.

The horn finally cut through it all.

I bent at the waist, hands on my knees, sweat dripping off my nose, heart banging hard enough to drown out the noise. Boone crashed into me from one side, Dawson from the other, the three of us laughing and swearing and holding each other upright.

When I looked up into the stands, Henry was jumping like we’d just won the Cup, Carissa’s hands on his shoulders to keep him from toppling over.

I pointed at him this time.

He pointed back.

My heart felt like it was about to explode.

We came off the ice, ears still ringing, body hot with adrenaline.

I was halfway past the bench when I caught movement cutting across the human traffic. Henry first, hair going wild, then Carissa right behind him. She reached me before anyone elsecould, and flung her arms around my neck, momentum carrying us a step back.