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It wouldn’t make any highlight reels, but Mikey controlling the play down low—using every bit of that hockey IQ I’d identified that first day of camp—was exactly what we needed.

Head up, scanning the ice, he curled away from the boards, drawing two Seattle players toward him and opening up a massive lane in the middle of the ice. It was a golden opportunity; all he needed was someone to be there.

Stockhard was the only hope.

Mikey threaded a pass right through the seam, a tape-to-tape pass that would have had me salivating if I was out there with him. The puck landed perfectly on Stocks’s stick as they crossed the blue line, creating a two-on-one rush and a chance to put the game away for good.

I leaned forward, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Do it, I urged Stocks in my head. Finish it for him.

Unfortunately, he chose that moment to panic, instead winding up for a clunky slap shot from twenty feet out. The puck fluttered a foot wide of the net.

“Fucking fuck!” I shouted, slamming the butt of my stick into the floorboards.

“We’ll get it next time,” Bell said evenly, grabbing hold of my stick to keep me from slamming it down again.

“Porter’s out there busting his ass and getting absolutely nothing to show for it,” I pointed out, not that I really needed to. Bell was watching the same game I was.

“Which is why he’s not going to be on the fourth line forever,” our captain said, letting my stick go. “Once Porter’s centering you, your job will be to make sure you bury those fucking passes. Got it?”

Off the wide shot, the puck rimmed violently around the boards and popped back out into the neutral zone. The other Seattle winger tried to track it back down, but stepped over the line a split-second before the puck crossed back out.

The whistle blew for an offside call, finally killing the play.

“Top line, you’re up!” Hendricks hollered, smacking his palm against the top of the boards. “Go get ‘em!”

Bell gave my shoulder a quick tap with his glove before pulling them tight and slinging his legs over the boards, Lavoie and Mercer joining him as the top unit bounded onto the ice to take the neutral-zone draw.

Mikey skated back toward our bench, his chest heaving, his mouthguard hanging from between his teeth. He vaulted over the boards right where Bell’s line had just cleared out. As he slid past me down the narrow path to take his spot at the far end of the bench, our shoulders brushed.

“Hell of a shift,” I said, scooting down the row.

He landed on the bench with a heavy thud, his breath coming in shallow bursts, sweat dripping down the sharp line of his jaw. When he turned to look at me, his eyes were bright. “Rustova called me a fucking pest,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting in a wide smile.

He snagged a towel someone tossed over his shoulder, wrapping it around his neck and bringing the ends up to wipe the sweat from his skin.

“I’m surprised that’s all he called you,” I said, making sure my voice was loud enough for him to hear over the song playing over the arena’s speakers. “He’s going to have nightmares about you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m gonna have nightmares about that cross-check.”

“You should definitely get that massaged later,” I told him, fighting a grin.

His eyes widened a fraction, his pupils dilating. “Yeah. I think I will.”

I dragged my attention back to the ice, watching my team white-knuckle their way through the final two minutes. Mercer lost the draw, and Seattle immediately went to work.

Right away, I could feel the collective panic on our bench. Every time Seattle snapped a pass across the seam, three of our guys collapsed inward. But Bell wasn’t about to let us blow this one.

Not again.

When Rustova wound up for a heavy slap shot from the point, Bell threw his body straight into the firing line, taking the puck off his thigh guard. He went down, but scrambled right back to his feet, barking at Bonesy and Stevens to clear the crease. Hale made a sprawling save on the rebound, covering the puck just as Seattle’s netminder bolted for their bench.

It was pure survival out there now: chipped clearances, heavy hits along the glass, and desperate sticks chopping at loose pucks.

When there were ninety seconds left on the clock, Coach yelled for the change, and I launched over the boards, my blood rushing with the need to score. To do what Stocks hadn’t been able to.

But with six Seattle skaters flooding our zone, the pressure was suffocating. They swung the puck around the perimeter, searching for an open lane, but Bonesy managed to disrupt a pass at the half-wall, tying up their right winger long enough for the puck to squirt loose.