I follow the team through the back entrance, past security, down the corridors to the visitors’ locker room. Everyone is intheir own head now, mentally preparing, going through their pre-game rituals.
Jake tapes his stick the same way every time. Cole sits in his stall with his eyes closed, visualizing plays. Ethan paces back and forth, too wired to sit still.
And me? I keep checking my phone for messages from Avery.
Avery: You've got this. Play your game. I'll be watching from New York.
Me: Wish you were here.
Avery: Me too. But I'll be thinking about you every second.
Me: That's a lot of pressure.
Avery: You can handle it. You always do.
I smile at the screen, her words settling something anxious in my chest.
“Who's got you smiling like that?” Jake asks, pulling on his jersey.
“None of your business.”
“You're so far gone, man.” But Jake's grinning too.
Despite the social media hate, I'm happy in a way I've never been before. For the first time in my life, I'm not performing. I'm just being myself. And someone loves me anyway.
Coach gives his pre-game speech, all fire and intensity, reminding us what's at stake. Then we're moving, filing down the tunnel toward the ice, the roar of the crowd growing louder with each step.
I scan the seats as we emerge for warmups, and there they are.
Caden is wearing my number seventeen jersey, and Travis is right next to him, pointing at players on the ice. Next to them is my mother. Dark hair pulled back, hands folded on her lap, eyes locked on me.
I wave. Caden and Travis go wild, jumping and waving back. My mother gives a small, tentative wave of her own.
I turn away and focus on warmups. This is what I can control. The feel of the puck on my stick, the burn in my muscles, and the way my skates cut across the ice.
The game starts fast and physical. Minnesota comes out aggressively, trying to intimidate us with big hits and trash talk. But we're ready for it.
First period ends scoreless, both teams feeling each other out.
Second period, Jake scores off a beautiful pass from Cole, and the visitors’ section erupts. I spot my brothers jumping up and down, high-fiving each other. Even my mom is on her feet, clapping.
Third period, Minnesota ties it up, and suddenly it's anyone's game. The pressure ratchets up, every shift feeling like it could be the one that decides everything.
With five minutes left, I get the puck in the offensive zone. Jake's open on my right, but I see an opening, a sliver of space between the defender and the goalie. It's a low-percentage shot, the kind that usually doesn't work.
But something tells me to take it.
I wind up and release, watching the puck sail past the defender's stick, past the goalie's glove, and into the top corner of the net.
Goal.
The light goes on. The horn sounds. And I'm buried under teammates, everyone screaming and celebrating and pounding my helmet.
We're up 2-1 with five minutes left in the game.
I glance toward section 114. Caden and Travis are losing their minds. My mother has both hands pressed to her mouth.
And something in me softens, just a little.
