But that conversation would have to wait until after we won this game.
Second intermission was quick. I kept the message simple—keep pressing, keep shooting, trust each other. Dante was cleared to play, though I could see him moving more carefully than he had been.
“Russo,” I called as the team started filing back out. He turned, and I gestured him over. “How are you really feeling?”
“I can play, Coach.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His jaw tightened slightly. “My back’s sore. But I’ve played through worse.”
I knew he had. I’d watched the footage from Chicago, seen the hits Antoine had let happen, the way Dante had learned to protect himself because no one else would. I gazed at him, trying to tell him everything without the words.
“You’re starting the third period on the first line,” I said. “And I want you shooting. That move we worked on—if you get the chance, use it.”
Something shifted in his expression—surprise, maybe, or determination. “Yes, Coach.” And heaven help me, but I wanted to hear my name on his lips.
The third period started, and I put Cole, Keegan, Dante, Sorin, and Morozov on the ice. Taz in net, playing like a man possessed. Ash ready to swap out.
Chicago tried to sit on their lead, play defensive, kill the clock. We threw everything at them. Shots from the point, deflections, scrambles in front of the net that had their goalie flailing.
Ten minutes left. Eight. Six.
Then Dante did exactly what I’d told him to do.
He picked up the puck at the blue line, cut across the slot with that perfect footwork we’d drilled. His hips stayed closed until the last possible second, then snapped open just as he released. The shot came off his backhand with a snap that made every coach in the building appreciate the mechanics involved.
Bar down. Top corner. The goalie never moved.
“GOAL!”The announcer’s voice cracked with excitement.“Dante Russo! What a shot! What a moment!”
“You can see the confidence in his game now”the color analyst added. “This is a different player than we saw three months ago.”
The building exploded. Dante turned toward our bench, his arms up, his face split in a grin that made my chest tight. Cole got to him first, then the rest of the line, piling on in celebration.
3-3. We’d tied it.
“Beautiful goal by the former Chicago player,”the announcer continued as play resumed. “You have to think that feels particularly sweet, scoring against the team that traded you.”
I didn’t care about Chicago’s feelings. I cared about the fact that we had four minutes left to win this game, or we were going to overtime in a building that was absolutely electric.
Four minutes became three. Three became two. Both teams were exhausted, skating on fumes and adrenaline. Chicago nearly scored on a breakaway that Taz stopped with a save that had no business working. We nearly scored when Cole hit the post on a one-timer that rang through the entire arena.
The buzzer sounded. 3-3. Overtime.
I gathered the team during the break. “Sudden death. First goal wins. We’ve been the better team for the last thirty minutes—we’re going to finish this.”
The overtime period was chaos. Back and forth, both teams getting chances, neither able to finish. My heart was hammering against my ribs in a way that had nothing to do with coaching and everything to do with watching Dante skate shift after shift.
Five minutes into overtime, I saw it developing. Cole carried the puck through the neutral zone, drawing defenders. Keegan was streaking down the far wing. And Dante—Dante was cutting across the slot with that perfect footwork, his stick positioned exactly right, and I knew what was coming before it happened.
Cole’s pass hit Dante’s tape. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t second-guess. Just snapped his hips open and released in one fluid motion.
The puck went bar down, far side. The goalie had no chance.
The red light came on. The goal horn sounded.
And the building lost its collective mind.
