Page 88 of The Enemy Face Off

Padalecki charges down the ice, intent on closing the one-point gap and forcing a sudden death overtime.

I'm not going to let that happen.

With my gaze locked on him, I bend my knees slightly, ready to spring in any direction. My gloved hand hovers just above the ice in case he decides to shoot low.

Padalecki fakes left, then right, but I'm able to read him well. I've kept him scoreless against me all season, and I know how much he hates that. He's been trash talking me every chance he gets. Not gonna lie, the competitive, egotistical part of me loves that.

He takes the shot.

The puck sails into the air.

It only takes a split second for me to miscalculate.

The puck sails just out of reach, above my outstretched glove, finding the back of the net with a resounding clang.

The deafening roar of the Boston home crowd conceals my outburst of expletives. I hate letting the team down, and because of me, we're going into a sudden death overtime. That's where the first team to score a goal wins the game and the entire championship.

"Don't blame yourself," Fraser says to me as we return to the locker room to wait out the fifteen-minute intermission. "You were great tonight."

"Thanks, man," I reply glumly.

"I'm serious. Don't beat yourself up. I missed a shot in the second period."

I clap his back, and he smiles tightly. I know how much he wants to win. Evie's dad is an LA Swifts legend, so winning the Stanley Cup would be extra special for him. "We'll refocus, and we'll kill it out there."

He slaps my back in return. "Yeah, we will. Go, Swifts!"

The team gathers around the coaching staff to discuss strategies and adjustments. I throw back a Gatorade, determined to refocus. What's done is done. I can't do anything about that. I can only control my future—both on andoffthe ice.

I want to win as much as Fraser does. All the guys do. The ultimate dream of every pro hockey player is to lift the Stanley Cup.

And if we win, it'll be extra special for me, too, because this will be the last game I ever play.

Yep, I'm retiring.

It's the right thing to do, and it's what I want to do. I've never been more certain of anything in my life.

We head back out onto the ice.

The tension in the arena is palpable, the roar of the crowd a constant hum in my ears, but I block it out, focusing solely on the ice in front of me. It's sudden death overtime—everything is on the line.

As the puck drops at center ice, I crouch low, every muscle in my body coiled and ready. The Bullets take control, their players moving fast, weaving down the ice with precision. My defense struggles to keep up, and before I know it, Padalecki is winding up for a shot.

Time slows as the puck rockets toward me. I drop into a butterfly, pads out wide, and feel the thud as the puck slams into my pad. No time to think, just react—I sweep the puck away with my stick, sending it to the corner.

The crowd's roar intensifies, but I'm already back on my feet, eyes scanning for the next threat. My teammates regain control, pushing the play up the ice, but I stay sharp, ready for anything.

Suddenly, there's a breakaway—Fraser slips past the Bullets' defense, racing down the ice. The noise from the crowd swells to a deafening level, but all I hear is the pounding of my heartbeat and the rush of blood in my ears. Fraser approaches their goalie, the puck dancing on his stick, and then—he shoots.

For a moment, time stands still.

I hold my breath, my entire being focused on that one instant. Then, the red light flashes behind their net, and the horn blares through the arena.

My teammates leap over the boards, rushing toward Fraser, who is already being swarmed at the other end. Relief floods through me, followed by a wave of pure, unadulterated joy. I push off the ice and join the celebration.

We did it! We won the Stanley Cup!

The victory feels extra special because it was Fraser who secured the winning goal.

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