Page 91 of Puck Your Charity

The power play expires without a goal. The Vipers kill the penalty.

The frustration mounts, but we refuse to panic. Knowing Olive waits for us keeps our emotions in check. In the past, missing a prime scoring chance would send me into a blind rage. I would slam my stick against the boards and curse at the referee. Today, I just skate back to the bench and take a drink of water. The calm focus remains intact. I know we will get another chance.

I look up at the VIP boxes circling the arena. I find the glass suite holding our family. I spot Olive. She stands near the glass, wearing my black and gold jersey. Her dark bob frames her flushed face. Even from this immense distance, her presence grounds me. She believes in us and trusts us to come home victorious. I refuse to let her down.

The second period ends in a scoreless tie. We retreat to the locker room to prepare for the final twenty minutes of the season.

The intermission passes in a tense, focused blur. We sit in the locker room, drinking water and catching our breath. Coach paces the rubber floor mats, barking out defensive adjustments. We nod. Twenty minutes separates us from the championship.

The warning buzzer sounds in the hallway.

I grab my stick and follow the pack out the door. We march down the concrete tunnel. The deafening roar of the arena hits my ears. We reach the box and take our seats on the wooden bench.

The referee blows his whistle to start the play.

We step off the bench and glide into our positions. The third period begins. The Berllow Vipers look desperate. They slash at our ankles and throw cheap insults across the ice. I block the noise out. My focus narrows down to the black rubber disc in the referee's hand.

The puck drops.

I win the draw. The game turns into an absolute war.

The Vipers score ten minutes into the period. A stray shot deflects off a skate and slips past Finn's blocker glove. The red light flashes. The home crowd goes dead silent. The score sits at one to zero.

We skate back to the bench. Finn skates to the corner and squirts water over his face. He looks frustrated, but he refuses to break. He skates back to the crease and taps the goalposts withhis stick. He catches my eye and gives a firm, steady nod. He locks the net down. No more goals.

We have ten minutes to save our season.

I jump over the boards for my next shift. The pack synergy shifts into overdrive. We stop playing a structured game and rely on our raw instincts. Malcolm throws a vicious hit near the blue line, stealing the puck. He fires a long pass up the ice.

Lawrence catches the pass in stride. He turns on his jet speed. He blows past the Vipers defensemen and goes on a breakaway. He fakes a shot, forces the goalie to drop to the ice, and slides a backhand shot into the top corner of the net.

The arena erupts. The deafening roar shakes the thick glass. Tied game. One to one.

We celebrate with a quick collision against the boards before racing back to center ice.

The clock ticks down. Three minutes. Two minutes. The threat of sudden-death overtime looms over the rink. The exhaustion burns my lungs, but the adrenaline keeps my legs moving.

One minute remains.

A Vipers forward tries to clear the puck out of their zone. He makes a blind pass up the middle of the ice.

I read the play before he even moves his stick. I jump into the passing lane and intercept the puck. I have a clear path to the net.

The Vipers defensemen scramble to catch me. I hear their skates chewing the ice right behind me. I ignore the pressure. I remember the therapy sessions and how to quiet the noise in my head. I find my center. I stay calm.

I approach the goalie. He challenges me, skating out of the crease to cut down my shooting angle.

I drop my shoulder, selling a snapshot to the right. The goalie bites on the fake. He drops his pads to the ice. I drag the puckacross my body to the left. I flick my wrists and lift the puck over his sprawling leg pad.

The rubber hits the back of the net.

The horn blares with a deafening blast. The red light spins. The crowd loses its collective mind. The noise turns into a tangible force, vibrating through the concrete floor of the arena.

I throw my arms up in the air. A triumphant roar rips out of my throat.

Lawrence tackles me from the side. We crash onto the ice in a tangled heap. Malcolm dives on top of us. Finn leaves his crease and skates the length of the rink, throwing his huge, padded body onto the pile.

We won. We secured the Alpha Cup.