Good.
First period — clean.
They’re fast. Experienced. Don’t give you anything cheap. We match them. Aiden is everywhere. Liam wins every puck battle along the boards like it’s personal.
I stop nine shots.
All clean.
Second period — we score first.
Brody, on a deflection in front that he had no business being at. He celebrates like he planned it. He did not plan it. I love this guy.
They answer four minutes later. Top corner. The defenseman pinches, the stretch pass, the winger gets a step — I get there. Just not enough.
1-1 going to the third.
Brody takes a penalty eight minutes in. Kills it himself forty seconds later. I decide to keep him.
I stop everything they throw at me.
Everything, for two periods.
Third period.
Six minutes left.
Their top line — three household names, guys who’ve been to the Final before, guys who know what this feels like. The defenseman pinches. Aiden’s a half-step slow recovering. The center gets it on the tape in the slot.
I read it.
I move.
High glove side.
The ghost shows up.
Just once. Just for a second — a half-inch of hesitation, a micro-flinch that costs me the angle before I correct. Not much. Barely anything.
Enough.
3-1.
I don’t look at the press box.
I go back to my crease. Reset. Tap the posts — left, right, crossbar — and I get my head where it needs to be for six minutes.
We hold it.
3-1 final.
Loss.
I know it’s not my fault. Offense went cold in the third, we had chances, hockey happens. I know all of that the way I know any stat — cleanly, from a distance.
I also know about the half-inch.
In the tunnel after, I let myself look up at the press box.
