His coach just shrugged.
“Devereux looking for a call there,”Pat said, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now.“But the official wasn’t buying it. Clean play by Russo.”
“Devereux’s had success with that move in the past,”Marty added.“But you have to wonder if the refs are starting to wise up to it. Or maybe Russo’s just too quick to actually make contact.”
The rest of the period unfolded like watching someone slowly lose their grip. Antoine was still out there every other shift, still trying to assert dominance, but he was chasing now. Playing angry instead of smart. He took a stupid penalty with eight minutes left—crosschecked Ash in front of the net for no reason except frustration—and we made them pay for it.
Dante didn’t score on the power play, but he set up Keegan for a one-timer that the Chicago goalie barely saw. 3-0.
When the horn sounded for the end of the second period, Antoine skated off the ice looking like a man who’d just realized his nightmare was real.
I walked into our room and found twenty men who believed they were going to win.
“Twenty minutes,” I said, and let the silence hold for a beat. “You’re up three goals. They’re going to come out desperate. They’re going to throw everything at us. Bodies, cheap shots, whatever they think will rattle you.”
I looked at Taz. “Stay sharp. They’ll be shooting from everywhere.”
“Always am,” he said.
“Renaud, keep them in their zone, keep them tired, keep them chasing.” I turned to Dante’s line. “And you three—smart hockey. No heroes. We don’t need to score again. We just need to not let them back in it.”
Cole nodded. Dante’s jaw was set in that particular way that meant he was locked in.
“Twenty minutes,” I said again. “And we’re going home.”
Chicago scored four minutes into the third.
Briggs got it—a shot from the point that Taz never saw until it was past him. The arena erupted, Chicago’s bench came alive, and I watched their coach start rolling lines faster, throwing everything forward.
3-1. Still comfortable, but no longer safe.
“Stay calm,” I called down the bench. “Nothing’s changed.”
But I could feel the shift in energy. Could see it in the way Chicago was skating now—faster, hungrier, finally playing like men who’d remembered they were supposed to be good at this.
Eight minutes left. Antoine’s line came out, and I watched him bark something at the rookie on his wing—the kid who’d been called up from the AHL. The rookie nodded, his face pale under his helmet.
They cycled in our zone. Antoine positioned himself in the slot, stick blade on the ice, clearly expecting the puck. The rookie had it along the wall, and instead of feeding Antoine, he looked off and passed it back to Kowalski at the point.
It was the right play. Kowalski had a better angle.
But Antoine lost his mind.
He threw his arms up, screaming something at the rookie that I couldn’t hear but could definitely read on his lips. The rookie’s shoulders hunched. Kowalski took the shot—Taz saved it easily—and when the whistle blew, Antoine skated directly at the kid and shoved him.
Not a hockey play. Just pure frustration, putting his gloves on the rookie’s chest and yelling in his face.His own rookie.
The arena went quiet for a beat. Then the boos started.
Not just from our fans. From Chicago’s fans too. Because whatever Antoine was saying, whatever he was doing, it was ugly and obvious and had nothing to do with winning a hockey game.
The ref skated over and said something sharp. Antoine ignored him, still jawing at the rookie, until his own captain had to pull him away.
“Jesus,” Max muttered beside me. “He’s completely lost it.”
“Good,” I said.
Five minutes left and we counted down. Chicago pulled their goalie with three and a half still on the clock—desperate, aggressive, exactly what a team down two goals in an elimination game had to do.
