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Tie game.

The noise hit so hard I felt it through the rubber matting under my shoes.

At the intermission, the players came down the tunnel in a clattering line. Trier’s face was flushed, sweat running from his temple. He looked at me as he passed and brushed the back of his glove against my hand.

I turned to watch him go, then moved aside for the equipment staff.

In the second period, Boston trapped Rook and Trier in our end. Rook’s stick broke while he was trying to intercept a pass. He dropped it and moved between the puck carrier and the forward waiting across the crease.

Trier dug the puck off the boards and tried to clear it. Boston kept it in.

On the monitor, the shift clock passed a minute.

Rook stayed near Pratt, blocking the passing lane with his body. Trier followed the puck into another corner. Neither could leave until we got it out.

At a minute twenty-two, Larsson finally knocked it past the blue line.

Rook and Trier headed for the bench. Rook sat bent over his knees, breathing hard. Trier rested a glove on his back. Varga leaned down to speak to Rook before taking his next shift.

The period ended with the score still one–one.

A league photographer found me during the break and asked where the presentation platform would be placed if we won. I showed him the marked area on the diagram and told him which route to keep clear.

Then I looked through the tunnel toward the freshly scraped ice.

Twenty minutes left in regulation. I had every part of a celebration planned, and no idea whether we’d get to use any of it.

Forty seconds into the third, Boston hit the post.

I heard the ring above the crowd. Pratt dropped over the loose puck as sticks jabbed around his pads. Trier wedged himself between a Boston forward and Pratt, taking two shoves to the chest before the whistle stopped play.

The next ten minutes passed in shots, stoppages, and questions through my headset. I answered what I had to. When someone asked whether we could move a camera closer to the tunnel entrance, I said no twice before they accepted it.

Then Rook stopped a clearing attempt at the blue line.

He brought the puck under control and sent it down the boards to Varga. A defender pinned Varga against the glass, but Varga kept working his skate against the puck until he kicked it free.

Rafe drove toward the far post, taking a defender with him.

Cross moved into the space they’d left.

Varga got the puck to Cross. He shot before the goalie could move into position, sliding it under his pad.

I shouted straight into my microphone.

“Copy that,” Tasha said.

I took my finger off the talk button.

On the monitor, Cross disappeared under three teammates who pressed him against the glass. When they let him go, he looked up at the clock on his way to the bench.

Two–one. Eight minutes fifty left.

Boston sent out its best line.

Rook and Trier went over the boards to meet them. Trier forced the puck carrier toward the outside while Rook stayed in the middle. A winger cut toward the net, and Rook turned with him. Trier kept his attention on the puck.

I’d watched them play together for years. Tonight I noticed every glance between them, every time one moved into the space the other had left.