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Taz skated past our bench during the stoppage. “You’re welcome.”
I stared at him. “Can you hear the broadcast from there?”
“No.”
“Then how did you—”
“He’s Taz,” Dante interrupted.
Fair enough.
Our second goal came with three minutes left in the period, and there was nothing elegant about it.
Baelor dug the puck out from behind the net and shoved it toward Dante, who tried to shoot but got tied up before he could find the angle. The puck squirted loose into the crease while three different sticks stabbed at it, and I was already moving before I consciously registered where it had gone.
I reached it half a second before the defenseman and jammed it under the goalie’s pad.
The horn sounded, and the world became noise and bodies as Dante hit me hard enough to almost knock me over while Baelor wrapped an arm around my neck.
“THORNE!”
“I KNOW!”
Someone hammered the top of my helmet, and I was still trying to untangle myself when I looked toward the bench.
Max stood there with one hand gripping the boards.
He wasn’t looking at the scoreboard or at the replay overhead.
He was looking at me.
There was so much pride in his expression that something hot and fierce expanded behind my ribs, and before I could stop myself, I pointed my stick at him.
His grin appeared immediately.
“Two-two,” Dave shouted. “Ash Thorne has tied Game Seven.”
“Big players find big moments, and he’s been excellent tonight.”
“He has,” Jack agreed, “and I’m going to say something that will probably generate another email.”
“Please don’t.”
“Renaud looks happier about that goal than Thorne does.”
Dave sighed. “I’ll forward it to you.”
“Appreciated.”
Theron waited until we were all inside the locker room before picking up a marker and writing a single number on the board.
20:00
Underneath it, he wrote one word.
OURS
He meant minutes. Nobody spoke while he turned around and looked at us.
