Page 20 of Checks & Bonds

Seeing them stirred something inside me. A pang I couldn't quite place. I never thought I'd want that—someone in the crowd wearing my name, watching me play, supporting me through wins and losses alike.

The realization hit me like a check into the boards: I wanted that now. More than I ever admitted to myself.

Coach barked my name, snapping me back to reality. I jumped up and grabbed my stick, pushing those thoughts aside. There was still a game to win, after all.

But as I lined up for the next faceoff, Freya's face lingered at the edge of my mind.

The game pressed on, and the energy in the rink ramped up another notch. My focus sharpened to a razor's edge as I positioned myself on defense, eyes locked on the puck. It skated along the boards, bouncing between players like a live wire.

The forward from Ann Arbor streaked toward our net, eyes hungry for a goal. He weaved through our players with practiced ease, his movements fluid and fast. I dug my blades into the ice, pushing off with every ounce of strength, closing the gap between us.

He wound up for a shot just inside the blue line. Time slowed. I saw his eyes narrow; the determination etched in every line of his face. My muscles tensed, ready to spring.

As he let loose a blistering slapshot, I dropped to one knee and extended my stick. The puck hurtled toward me, a black bullet aimed for our net. The impact rattled through my body as it met my stick blade, a jarring shock that numbed my hand.

I watched as the puck deflected off my stick and sailed harmlessly into the corner. The forward's frustration was palpable; he slammed his stick against the ice with a snarl. My teammates cheered from the bench, their voices barely cutting through the adrenaline pounding in my ears.

Morgan shouted encouragement from behind me as I scrambled back to my feet. The play continued without missing a beat—no time to rest or savor small victories.

Liam gave me an appreciative nod as he cleared the puck out of our zone, sending it sailing down the ice where our forwards eagerly chased it down. I took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill my lungs and clear my mind.

But just as quickly as we cleared it, Ann Arbor regrouped and charged back into our zone. I skated hard to cover my man, staying between him and our net like a shadow he couldn't shake.

He tried to maneuver around me, but I anticipated his move and blocked him with my body. He grunted in frustration, jostling for position but finding no way through. The puck whipped around us again—left to right, then back to center ice—each player moving in a well-practiced dance of give and take.

With seconds ticking down on the clock for this period, we dug in deeper. Every stride felt like fire in my legs; every breath burned in my chest. But quitting wasn't an option—this was our ice, our game to win or lose.

And losing wasn't on the table tonight.

The final minutes of the game felt like an eternity. The scoreboard glared down at us, tied 2-2, a constant reminder that victory hung by a thread. My legs screamed with every push, but I tuned out the pain. The crowd’s roars melded into a single, relentless wave of noise.

Ann Arbor controlled the puck in our zone, cycling it with precision. My eyes tracked every pass, my mind running throughscenarios. A forward cut across the slot, stick ready for a one-timer. I lunged forward, closing the gap just as he unleashed his shot.

I felt the puck strike my shin pad, a dull thud that reverberated up my leg. It bounced away erratically, but Ann Arbor regained control. They kept pressing, and I could sense our defense fraying at the edges.

Then it happened—a scramble in front of our net. Sticks clashed, bodies tangled. The puck squirted free in slow motion, glistening under the arena lights.

I didn't think; I reacted. I dove forward, my shoulder colliding with an opposing player’s ribs. He went down hard, and the puck skittered out from the melee.

Sawyer was there in a flash. He scooped it up with finesse and bolted down the ice like his skates were on fire. The crowd's roar reached a fever pitch, their excitement almost tangible.

Time slowed as Sawyer closed in on their goalie. He deked left, then right, freezing the goalie just long enough to find an opening. His wrist shot was pure poetry—clean and swift—sending the puck into the back of the net with a resounding thwack.

The horn blew.

The sound filled every corner of the rink, echoing in my ears like a triumphant fanfare. The game was done.

I stumbled to my feet, chest heaving with effort and exhilaration. My teammates rushed onto the ice, engulfing Sawyer in a jubilant embrace. The sheer joy on their faces mirrored my own emotions—a mix of relief and triumph.

As I skated toward them, I let myself savor the moment. We had fought tooth and nail for this win, and now it was ours.

The crowd's cheers washed over us like waves crashing on a shore, each one a testament to our hard-fought victory.

"Final score: Crestwood 3, Ann Arbor 2! Crestwood moves on to the finals!" the announcer's voice boomed through the rink.

The crowd erupted in cheers, a deafening roar of approval. I soaked it in, every clap and shout echoing in my bones. We skated around, celebrating with our fans, our hearts full and light.

Then the announcer's tone shifted. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, a moment of silence for Eren Hawke, whose life was gone too soon. He was a defenseman for the team and would have loved being part of this."

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