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Coach sent my line out, and we set up at center ice, my heart still pounding as Bens went in for the faceoff. There was—I glanced up—eight minutes left on the clock. One more goal and we could win this thing. Two more and we’d be gold, but one would keep us alive.
Bens won the faceoff and sent me the puck. I started toward the offensive zone, but a forward and a beast of a defenseman got in the way. That defenseman had been on Morrison during the faceoff, though, and getting in my way meant he’d left Morrison unprotected. Staring down the men who were on me, I passed without looking, and I knew my aim had been true when renewed excitement rose from the stands all around us.
The defenseman spun around, probably to go after Morrison, and I sped past him, almost grazing his jersey as I flew into the offensive zone.
Minneapolis was collapsing in on Morrison. I remembered from watching their games with the team this morning that this was something they did when they lost their focus. When they were off their game, they’d leave players unguarded and double- or triple-team whoever was in possession of the puck. One well-placed pass and they’d be on their heels with no one protecting the player who was now in possession.
That was exactly what happened this time—their guys collapsed in on Morrison and Bens, leaving me, Antonov, and Smith completely exposed. Morrison shouted Smith’s name and seemed to be working toward him, as if preparing to send him the puck. The Minneapolis players must’ve been truly off their game, because two of them fell for it.
He passed to Antonov, who was completely exposed.
Antonov passed to me, and I was also wide open.
My one-timer sailed past the goalie’s left ear.
And the red light came on again.
The arena was once again shaking as the crowd, who’d been subdued for a while when things had been looking grim, came fully back to life and screamed in celebration. My guys crushed me in hugs as if we’d won the Cup, rather than just clawing our way back from a two-point deficit to tie things up.
After fist bumps, we returned to the bench. Coach sent the top line out again, but first, he touched Davis’s shoulder. “Play like they’re going to pull it together and be the team who was beating us all night.”
Davis nodded sharply. As the top line skated to center ice, Coach shouted the advice to the rest of us.
He had a point. Minneapolis was one of those teams that could lose its focus and fall apart, but they could also rally like few others. It was entirely possible they’d continue to let us dominate the game. It was equally possible they’d turn shit around and destroy us.
Coach’s advice was wise, because Minneapolis did exactly what he’d warned us they would do. No one was left unprotected. They intercepted our passes as often as we intercepted theirs. Drive after drive for our net just like we made drive after drive for theirs. Goalies absolutely standing on their heads at both ends of the ice. The remainder of that period was probably the most intense and exhausting four and a half minutes of my life, and I only played about forty-five seconds of it.
The buzzer finally sounded, announcing the end of the period.
The end of regulation.
Despite our valiant efforts, the score was still tied, which meant we were going into overtime. Fuck.
We were still alive, which was good. But overtime wasso goddamned stressful. Especially when there was a playoff berth on the line.
Davis, Nilsson, and Antonov set up for three-on-three. I was on my feet, leaning on the boards and waiting for my shift, which would come up fast.
Minneapolis made a run for our goal that had everyone gasping, but Nilsson snatched the puck away, and the action changed direction. He passed it to Davis, then raced for the bench.
As soon as he was within a few feet, I flew over the boards and tapped my stick to call for the puck. Davis passed it without looking, and it went a little ahead of where I was. One of Minneapolis’s players chased after it at the same time I did.
I got there first. As I reached for the puck, though, something snagged on my skate boot. I tumbled onto the ice, and I swore loud enough the cameras might’ve caught it. Frustration more than anything; yeah, it smarted when my elbow hit the ice, but my gear protected me well enough.
Then a whistle blew, and I pumped my fist.
The ref gestured at the guy, who shouted back, “Oh, come on!”
“Tripping.” The ref pointed at the box. “Two minutes.”
The player who’d tripped me swore louder than I had, rolled his eyes, and skated toward the box.
I exchanged glances with my teammates, and we all grinned, especially as Bens came over the boards for the power play. Penalties during overtime were deadly, and with the playoffs riding on this game, we were damn sure going to capitalize on this one.
My teammates and I quickly communicated a set play. As I skated into position for the faceoff, I glanced up into the stands and caught Isaiah’s eye. He smiled. So did I.
Then I shifted my attention to the game, watching as Davis positioned himself at the dot opposite the other center. The puck dropped. Davis lost the faceoff, but Antonov snagged the puck away and shot it to me. I went around behind the goal, drawing the attention of their three skaters. I wound up, ready for a one-timer, and just as they collapsed in on the goal, I fired it to Bens.
He slapped it hard. The goal light came on. And the crowd blew the roof off the place.
