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“Game Seven may come down to this. Ash Thorne has the puck at center ice, and if he puts it past the Vegas goaltender, Colorado advances to the Western Conference Final.”

Jack was silent for another second before answering.

“There’s nowhere to hide in a moment like this.”

No.

There wasn’t.

That was what made it perfect.

I put the blade of my stick behind the puck and looked toward Max one final time.

He nodded.

There was no fear in his expression and no doubt that I could do this, because Max had somehow managed to give me the one thing I’d spent years believing I would never deserve.

Absolute trust.

I turned back toward the net as the referee raised the whistle to his mouth.

The sharp sound cut through the arena.

I moved the puck forward and started skating.

The first few strides felt strangely measured, not because I was tired but because I was suddenly aware of everything at once. My blades bit into the ice, the stick felt solid between my hands, and the goalie tracked every movement I made as I crossed the blue line.

He came farther out of the crease to cut down the angle.

I kept moving.

There was no reason to rush because he had to react to me, not the other way around, so I shifted the puck toward my backhand and watched his shoulders move with it.

Not much.

Enough.

I drew closer and moved right, letting him follow before pulling the puck back across my body.

His left pad shifted.

The opening was tiny.

It was enough.

I snapped the puck toward the far side.

For a fraction of a second, I lost sight of it beneath the goalie’s arm, and there was enough time for my mind to supply every possible outcome except the one I wanted.

Then the net moved.

The red light came on.

The arena exploded.

I stood there staring at the puck behind the Vegas goaltender while the sound crashed over me, so enormous that I felt it through my skates before my brain managed to catch up with what had happened.

I’d scored the goal that ended Game Seven.