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At twelve minutes, one of their defensemen put me into the boards hard enough that the world flashed white around the edges. I stayed down just long enough to hear Max shout my name, which was more than enough incentive to get one skate underneath me and push myself upright before he decided to come over and murder someone.

“I’m fine,” I shouted.

I wasn’t, but the distinction seemed unimportant.

By fifteen minutes, nobody had much left. Shifts shortened as Theron started mixing combinations, sending out whichever players still had enough legs to chase one more puck, block one more shot, or survive one more trip from one end of the rink to the other.

That was how I found myself climbing over the boards beside Max.

He glanced at me as I landed on the ice. “Still alive?”

“Debatable.”

“Try.”

“Bossy bastard.”

His mouth twitched. “Go.”

Vegas dumped the puck deep, and Tyson collected it behind our net before sending it toward Max along the boards. I was already moving as Max carried it through neutral ice, because one of their defensemen had shifted toward him and left more space through the middle than Vegas had given us all night.

Max saw it at exactly the same time I did.

The pass came across.

I caught it cleanly and accelerated.

The defenseman turned too late.

I was past him before he recovered, and suddenly the ice ahead of me opened in a way it hadn’t all night.

The crowd rose as one when they realized I was clear.

I pushed the puck ahead and drove toward the net, aware of the Vegas goaltender coming farther out of his crease to challenge while the defenseman behind me tried desperately to close the distance.

My lungs burned, my bruised thigh screamed with every stride, and my entire world narrowed to the puck on my stick and the man waiting in front of the net.

I shifted slightly left, trying to make the goalie commit before I decided where to put the shot.

I never got the chance.

Something caught me from behind, dragging hard enough across my body that my right skate disappeared beneath me. I went down before I could recover, hitting the ice while the puck slid harmlessly toward the corner, and the referee’s whistle cut through the roar.

For a few seconds, I stayed where I was and tried to get enough air into my lungs to move.

When I pushed myself onto one elbow, the Vegas defenseman who had chased me down was standing ten feet away with both hands on his helmet, while Max was shouting at the official from somewhere behind me.

Then I saw the referee point toward center ice.

My stomach dropped.

“Penalty shot!” Dave’s voice cracked through the arena. “The official has awarded Ash Thorne a penalty shot in sudden-death overtime.”

There was a moment of stunned silence from Jack before he shouted, “Holy shit.”

“Jack.”

“I don’t care about the email, Dave.”