Page 69 of Puck Your Bunny

I take the bottle and chug the cold liquid. Wally looks like a ghost, but a familiar fire burns in his dark eyes. We run on fumes, but our Omega just handed us the spark we need.

"Listen up." The head coach stands in the center of the room. He looks just as drained as the roster. "The ice out there turns to chopped snow fast. Keep your shifts short. Forty seconds max. Dump the puck deep. Shoot from everywhere. A garbage bounce wins this game. End it."

We tape our sticks, grab our helmets, and march back down the concrete tunnel.

The crowd remains on their feet. The fans run on the same desperate adrenaline keeping us upright. The stadium erupts in a deafening roar as we step back onto the ice.

I look up at the VIP box one last time. The memory of her lavender and honeysuckle scent hits my brain. She claimed us as her Alphas last night. She gave us a future. I dig into that memory, pulling a fresh surge of energy from the bond we finalized.

The horn blasts to start the fifth overtime.

The first ten minutes turn into a brutal, grinding war of attrition. Both teams dump the puck into the corners, too exhausted to carry it through the neutral zone. Deep ruts and piles of snow cover the ice, making every pass a massive gamble. The puck bounces like a tennis ball over the chopped surface.

I sit on the bench, my chest heaving. Ammonia smelling salts burn my nostrils, snapping my focus back to the game. Henry and the second line battle in the defensive zone. They keep the Bears pinned against the wall for forty seconds, taking the brunt of the bruising hits to buy us time to catch our breath.

"First line, get out there." The head coach taps Wally on the shoulder pad.

Henry dumps the puck into the neutral zone and sprints for the door.

Wally stands up. Simon and I follow. We vault over the boards, our skates biting into the rough ice. The crowd noise drops to a tense, vibrating hum. Everyone in the arena knows the next mistake ends the season. We line up in the defensive zone for a face-off.

The ref drops the puck. The Bears center ties Wally up, kicking the puck back to their point.

A Heathstead defenseman winds up for a slap shot. I drop to one knee, blocking the shooting lane. The hard rubber puck catches the outside of my shin guard. The impact stings right down to the bone. I block out the ache and scramble back to my feet. The puck deflects into the corner.

Simon reads the bounce. He turns on the jets, his copper hair visible through his helmet vents as he races their winger to the corner boards.

The Bears winger tries to pin the puck against the wall. Simon attacks the play. He initiates contact, driving his shoulder into the guy's chest to separate him from the puck. Simon uses his stick to strip the rubber free.

"Middle!" Wally yells, circling low to provide an outlet.

Simon bypasses the safe play. He sees a massive gap in their exhausted defensive coverage. He kicks the puck to his own stick and accelerates up the right wing. He blows past their center, breaking out of our zone with insane speed.

I read the rush. I push off my left edge, sprinting down the left side of the ice. My lungs scream for oxygen. My legs feel like cement blocks. I force my muscles to fire, chasing Simon to create a two-on-one odd-man rush. I hit the opposing blue line, keeping myself onside by a fraction of an inch.

Simon hits the top of the right circle. A Heathstead defender steps up to challenge him. Simon fakes a shot, freezing the defender. With a quick flick of his wrists, Simon sends a saucer pass floating across the choppy neutral zone ice.

The puck lands flat right on my tape.

I catch the pass on the left wing. I cut toward the net. The massive Heathstead defenseman tracks my movement. He drops his shoulder, lining me up for a brutal open-ice hit. He wants to separate my head from my shoulders to stop the play.

I have a split second to make a choice. Taking the hit keeps the scoring chance alive.

I brace my core. I keep my eyes on the slot. I absorb the devastating impact as the defender crushes me into the plexiglass. The glass rattles. My helmet smacks against the pane. The air leaves my lungs in a violent rush.

Right before the hit connects, I slip a blind backhand pass right into the center of the slot.

Wally crashes the center lane. He intercepts my pass in perfect stride. He catches the puck on his forehand. The Heathstead goalie drops into the butterfly position, trying to take away the bottom of the net.

Wally uses the defenseman as a screen. He winds up. He fires a blistering wrist shot.

The puck launches off his stick. It sails over the goalie's dropping shoulder. It clinks against the metal crossbar and drops right into the back of the net.

The red goal light flashes bright behind the glass.

The horn blares. The deafening blast shakes the concrete foundation of the arena.

I slide down the glass, landing on my knees. I watch the puck sitting in the white netting. The exhaustion vanishes. A massive surge of adrenaline floods my veins. We did it.