I met them at the tunnel entrance. Julian was conscious, which was good, but his eyes weren’t tracking properly, and he was leaning heavily on Cinder’s shoulder.
“Concussion?” I asked quietly.
“Definitely,” Cinder confirmed. “He’s done for the week. Probably longer, depending on how bad it is.” Marchand was human.
That made two players down. Max with his broken wrist, Julian with a concussion. We were running out of bodies, and Chicago knew it.
I turned back to the bench and made the call I’d been dreading. “Yukin, you’re up. Take Marchand’s spot on the third line.”
Yukin was nineteen, called up from the AHL two weeks ago, had played exactly six NHL games before tonight. His eyes went wide, but he nodded and hopped the boards when his line was called.
The kid did fine—didn’t make any catastrophic mistakes, didn’t try to do too much, just played his position and movedthe puck when it came to him. But fine wasn’t going to win us this game. We needed exceptional, and exceptional was in the dressing room with a broken wrist and a concussion.
Chicago sensed blood in the water. They pressed harder, threw more hits, tried to goad us into more penalties that would give them the power play they needed. I rotated lines faster than I normally would, keeping fresh legs on the ice, trying to match their physicality without losing our structure.
Twelve minutes left. Ten. Eight.
Then Cole did something brilliant.
He picked up the puck in our defensive zone, chipped it past Chicago’s forecheck, and took off. He was fast—faster than he had any right to be at this point in the game after fighting and getting hit for sixty minutes. Phoenix was screaming something from the tunnel that I couldn’t hear but Cole apparently could, because he shifted his angle slightly as he crossed the blue line.
The defenseman committed to the body check. Cole pulled the puck back at the last second, let the hit glance off his shoulder, and suddenly he had nothing but ice between him and Chicago’s goalie.
I held my breath. The building held its breath. Eighteen thousand people in Dragons jerseys surged to their feet, screaming.
Cole went backhand, top shelf, far side. The goalie had no chance.
The red light came on. The goal horn sounded. And Cole turned toward our bench with his arms up, his face split in a grin that I could see from fifty feet away.
We were up 3-2 with six minutes left.
Chicago pulled their goalie with three minutes remaining, which gave them an extra attacker but also meant any mistake would result in an empty-net goal.
Chicago threw everything at us. Shots from the point, deflections, scrambles in front of Levin that had me gripping the bench hard enough to leave marks. The clock ticked down with agonizing slowness. Two minutes. Ninety seconds. One minute.
Chicago pulled their goalie again after an icing, desperate for the equalizer. Forty-five seconds left. Thirty. Twenty.
The puck came to Keegan at center ice. He had an empty net in front of him, but two Chicago players between him and the goal. I watched him make the calculation, saw him decide it wasn’t worth the risk, and fed it to Ash streaking down the wing instead.
Ash didn’t hesitate. He fired it from the red line, and I watched that puck sail through the air in what felt like slow motion, tracking true despite the distance, despite the pressure, despite everything.
It went in.
4-2 Dragons.
The final fifteen seconds were just formality. Chicago didn’t even bother pulling their goalie again. The horn sounded. The game was over.
We’d won.
I stood there for a moment, letting it sink in. We’d won despite the targeting, despite losing Max and Julian, despite everything Chicago had thrown at us. My team had held together when it mattered most.
So why didn’t it feel like a win? I kept myself from looking at the press box with difficulty.
Chapter thirteen
Breakaway - A lone attacker racing in on the goalie with no defenders.
Dante
