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Taz bent over his stick laughing.

“I hate everybody.”

“No, you don’t.”

I looked toward the bench and discovered Max was already watching me. The corner of his mouth lifted, and the crowd somehow managed to get louder.

“Interesting choice from our production team,” Dave observed.

“I had nothing to do with it,” Jack said immediately.

“I didn’t accuse you.”

The screen finally changed to the Vegas bench, allowing me to concentrate very hard on adjusting a glove that didn’t need adjusting.

“Thorne and Renaud have certainly attracted some attention during this series,” Dave continued.

“For their hockey.”

“Of course.”

“Absolutely nothing else.”

“Jack.”

“What?”

I could practically hear him grinning.

“Emails from management.”

“Right. Hockey. Ash Thorne has four goals this postseason and has been one of Colorado’s most consistent forwards through six games against Vegas.”

“Much better.”

“Thank you.”

“And tonight, they need him.”

The smile disappeared from my face because Dave was right.

They did.

Theron tapped my shoulder when I reached the bench. “Dante. Baelor. Ash.”

The three of us went over the boards, and a few moments later, the puck dropped on Game Seven.

Vegas scored first.

Seven minutes and fourteen seconds into the opening period, we lost possession along the boards, and they transitioned before we had time to reset. Taz suddenly had two men coming at him while Tyson desperately tried to take away the pass, and although Taz stopped the first shot, the rebound kicked out before any of us could reach it.

The red light flashed behind him.

The arena went from deafening to horrified in less than a second.

“Vegas strikes first,” Dave said over the broadcast. “Rees makes the initial save, but Colorado can’t clear the rebound.”

“And that’s exactly the start they didn’t want. Vegas has been dangerous in transition all series, and Colorado just gave them too much room.”