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For the first time since we came off the ice, Elias moves with any real purpose. His arms lock around Cole and he holds on.

His face presses into Cole’s neck and his shoulders start shaking again, but this time it’s quieter. Cole keeps whispering things into his ear. Whatever he’s saying works. After a minute, Elias lets out a short, wet little laugh against Cole’s shoulder. It’s small, but it’s real.

Around the room, the rest of us stay quiet. Nobody looks away, but nobody stares either. We just give them the space they need.

I lean back against my stall and let out a slow breath.

Once Elias has settled a bit against Cole’s chest, Damian finally steps into the middle of the room. “We’re down two games to one,” he says, looking around at all of us. “We lost Game Two at home, and we just got outplayed tonight. Tomorrow is Game Four. Still in this building. Still on their ice.”

He pauses, letting that sit. “I’m not going to stand here and tell you this is fine. It’s not. They’re faster on home ice, they’re capitalizing on every mistake, and right now they’re the better team. That ends tomorrow.”

His eyes flick briefly to Elias, still tucked against Cole, then back to the rest of us. “We clean up the turnovers. We stay disciplined. We stop giving them free looks in front of the net. And we play our game — not theirs. One period at a time. One shift at a time. That’s it.”

Nobody argues. Nobody even nods. We just listen.

Damian’s voice softens by half a degree, but the edge stays. “Get your rest. Eat. Ice whatever needs icing. We fly back home after tomorrow night either up one or down three. I know which one I prefer.”

He looks at Elias one more time. “You’re still captain. That doesn’t change because of one bad night. But tonight, you sit with it. You don’t carry it into tomorrow alone. Understood?”

Elias gives a small, rough nod against Cole’s shoulder.

Damian holds the silence for another second, then turns and walks out without another word.

The room stays quiet after he leaves.

The team is still soft around Elias. Even now, in the middle of a Finals game, there’s a carefulness in how they move around him—a hand on his shoulder between shifts, a quick check-in, the vets angling themselves toward him on the bench, ready to step in if he starts slipping again. Yesterday’s meltdown left a mark. But somehow, instead of breaking him, it seems to have lit something under him.

The kid is on fire. He’s been everywhere all night—winning draws, crashing the net, yelling encouragement with real belief behind it again. And it’s spreading. The whole team looks sharper, hungrier, fueled by enough anger over Game 3 to remember exactly who they are.

By the third period, the Reapers are up by two.

I’m smiling behind the camera as I track them along the boards. The Vancouver crowd is restless now, the energy shifting. I catch Elias celebrating a goal with Cole, both of them wearing huge, ridiculous grins.

They’re okay.

He’s okay.

Then Matteo makes a beautiful save. He reads a two-on-one perfectly, steps up at the exact right moment, and strips the puck clean with a quick, aggressive stick lift. The crowd boos. Shane, from the crease, lets out a loud, filthy string of praise that carries even over the noise.

“That’s fucking filthy, Rivera! Suck his soul out next time!”

Matteo laughs as he skates away, tapping his stick against the ice once in acknowledgment.

I keep the camera on him a second longer than I need to, watching the way he moves, the easy confidence in his posture.

Then I force myself to pan away and find the next play.

We’re not done yet.

But for the first time in two days, it feels like the Reapers might actually take this one.

Elias scores again with just over six minutes left.

It’s a dirty little rebound goal and the second the lamp lights up, the entire Reapers bench erupts. Guys are slamming the boards, yelling, climbing half over each other. The energy is night-and-day different from last night’s heavy silence. Elias is grinning so wide it looks like it hurts as Cole crashes into him against the glass. Even Damian allows himself a small, sharp nod from behind the bench.

I keep shooting, capturing the chaos, the relief, the way the whole team seems to exhale at once.

Late in the period, Matteo makes another strong play — a clean gap control that forces a dump-in and kills a potential rush. As he skates back toward the bench for a change, his eyes find my camera. Just for a second. Our gazes lock through the glass.