Page 103 of Playoff

Fuck.

I don’t have time for this right now.

We’re still in it.

And when the buzzer sounds, ending regulation, it’s time to dig deep.

Nothing matters but keeping our playoff hopes—and my only lifeline—alive.

Just a little longer.

But overtime is a slog.

Fifteen long minutes without scoring.

By the time we get to the second overtime, we’re hyped but also tired.

Gabe is favoring his left knee; Rowan worked hard on it between periods.

Marty took a hit, and the doc doesn’t want him to go back out.

If I’m honest, my left shoulder is tweaked.

But there’s no time for weakness.

We have to pull out a win.

I don’t know what the hell I’ll do if we don’t.

My lungs are screaming, my knees are shaky, and still, no one scores.

One minute left.

Part of me is praying to just squeak through so we can rest and hydrate, but I also want to finish it. Get the win and move to the division finals.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

Anton Petrov, one of the star forwards on the Sidewinders, rips a slap shot right through Gabe’s five hole.

The red light goes on and my world drops out from under me.

It’s over.

We fucking lost.

Mother. Fucker.

The Sidewinders are off the bench, forming one big pile on the ice as they celebrate.

And the rest of us—the Phantoms—can’t move.

Gabe looks defeated, his head hanging.

I’m rooted in place, trying to force my legs forward, so I can get to the bench.

Canyon is coasting, stick hanging limply from his right hand.

Connor looks like he wants to cry.

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