And then I watched Markov cross-check Max from behind, driving him face-first into the boards with enough force that I heard the impact from the bench.
Max went down hard. Didn’t get up immediately, which was wrong because Max always got up immediately. Ash dropped his gloves and went after Markov, which earned him a penalty and took us down to three skaters. The refs were blowing whistles. The crowd was screaming. And Max was still on the ice, cradling his right wrist against his chest.
Cinder ran on, his medical bag already in hand. Max’s face was white and his wrist was already swelling.
Max extended his arm with visible reluctance. Even from where I was standing, I could see the angle was wrong. Maybe broken—but dragons healed too fast for breaks to show up—badly sprained at minimum, possibly fractured in ways that would heal in hours rather than weeks but would still sideline him for the rest of this game.
I saw Cinder gesture and watched as they both came off the ice. It wasn’t a request.
I itched to go help but I wasn’t allowed without permission and a helmet so I stood and watched.
The crowd gave Max a standing ovation as we made our way to the tunnel, which Max acknowledged with a brief nod even though I could see the pain radiating through him with every step.
The refs were sorting out the penalties. The math worked out to four-on-four for two minutes, then we’d go back to the penalty kill for the remaining two minutes of Collins’s high stick.
Four-on-four should have been manageable. We had skilled players who could move the puck, create space, kill time until we got back to full strength. But Chicago had Markov and Jensen on the ice, and they were playing like men who’d been given the green light to do whatever it took.
The puck dropped. Cole won it, chipped it to Keegan along the boards. Keegan started to carry it up ice, looking for a clearance.
Jensen came in with an elbow that the refs somehow didn’t see. Keegan went down. The puck came loose. One of Chicago’s defensemen picked it up, fed it back to the point, and their power play quarterback one-timed it past Levin before anyone could get into the shooting lane.
The goal horn sounded. Chicago’s bench erupted. And we were tied 2-2 with two minutes still to kill on Collins’s penalty and our captain in medical with a wrist that was swelling like a balloon.
Dragon healing was remarkable, but it wasn’t instantaneous. A broken wrist would take at least two days to heal completely, maybe three if the break was bad. We could hide the injury. Cinder would cover for him, but Max would miss the rest of this game and probably game four.
I watched the rest of the penalty kill. We survived it—barely. Levin made three saves that were incredible, Cole blocked a shot with his ribs that made me wince in sympathy, and somehow, we made it to the buzzer still tied 2-2.
But the damage was done. Chicago had proven they could hurt us, would hurt us, and the refs either couldn’t or wouldn’t stop it. And we had one more period to survive before we could get out of this building and regroup.
I made my way back to the dressing room as the teams changed for the third period. The energy had shifted—our guys were angry now, which could be useful or catastrophic depending on whether they channeled it into smart hockey or retaliation that would put us further down.
“Listen up,” I called, and eighteen faces turned toward me. “I know you’re pissed. I’m pissed too. But we do not” —I made sure to make eye contact with each of them— “we do not give them what they want. They want us taking stupid penalties, getting thrown out of the game, losing our composure. We don’t give them that. We play smart, we play our game, and we find a way to win this. Understood?”
“Understood, Coach,” came the chorus of replies.
I looked at Cole, at Keegan, at Ash who’d just gotten thrown out for defending his captain. At all of them, really, these players I’d spent months trying to mold into something cohesive, something that could win when it mattered.
“Dante, Morven, and Elijah are watching from upstairs,” I said, which was true and also calculated. “Let’s show them what this team looks like when we have each other’s backs.”
I saw something shift in their expressions—a collective hardening of resolve that told me they’d heard what I was really saying. This wasn’t just about winning a playoff game. This was about proving we were the kind of team that didn’t break when someone tried to break us.
The third period started, and I sent out my best defensive lineup. We were going to protect this tie, take it to overtime if we had to, find a way to steal a win and cut Chicago’s series lead.
But I knew, watching Jensen and Markov hop the boards again, that it was going to cost us something before the night was over.
I just hoped it wasn’t more than we could afford to pay.
It happened eight minutes into the third period.
Julian Marchand went into the corner battling for a loose puck with one of Chicago’s defensemen—a clean play, the kind of board battle that happened fifty times a game. But Jensen was right there, coming in from the side with his stick up, and what should have been incidental contact turned into something else entirely when Jensen’s elbow caught Julian in the side of the head.
Julian went down like someone had cut his strings.
The whistle blew immediately, but it was already too late. Cole was over the boards before I could stop him, Morovoz right behind him. Keegan came in from the point. Even Levin washalfway out of his crease, and I’d never seen that goalie close to abandoning his net in a tied game.
Jensen dropped his gloves, which was stupid because Cole didn’t need the invitation. They went at it in the corner while the refs tried to separate everyone else. I watched Cole land three solid punches before the linesmen finally pulled them apart, and the savage satisfaction on his face told me everything I needed to know about how much he’d been holding back all game.
The refs sorted through the chaos. Four minutes for fighting to both Cole and Jensen. Game misconduct for Jensen because of the initial hit. Two minutes to Keegan for roughing. Two minutes to Chicago’s defenseman for the same thing. When the math worked out, we were back to even strength with Julian being helped off the ice by Cinder and our backup medical staff.
