Page 105 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

"Understood."

"Good." He squeezes my shoulder once, then moves on to Peterson, leaving me to finish gearing up.

Miller slides onto the bench beside me, already fully dressed except for his helmet. "Heard your girl's in the stands tonight."

"Hannah," I correct him automatically. "And yeah, with her friends."

"First game she's been to, yeah?"

I nod, taping my socks with more focus than necessary.

"Big pressure," he comments casually. "Playing for scouts and the girlfriend at the same time."

"She's not my—" I start, then stop. "It's fine. I'm focused."

"Sure, you are," he says, unconvinced. "Just remember—play the game in front of you, not the one in your head. Save the overthinking for the classroom."

Before I can respond, Coach calls for the team huddle. We gather in a tight circle, arms over shoulders, the familiar pre-game ritual grounding me momentarily in the present.

"Alright, gentlemen," Coach begins, his voice steady and firm. "Conference finals. This is what we've worked for all season. Northeastern State is good—disciplined, physical, well-coached. But they're not us. They don't have our speed, our creativity, our heart."

He looks around the circle, making eye contact with each player. When his gaze lands on me, I see a flicker of concern that he quickly masks.

"Play our game. Clean breakouts, quick transitions, bodies to the net. Trust your training, trust each other." He puts his hand in the center. "On three. One, two, three—"

"WOLVES!" we shout in unison, the team name echoing off the tiled walls.

Then we're filing out of the locker room, down the tunnel toward the ice. I can hear the crowd now, the distant roar building as the announcer introduces Northeastern State's lineup. My heart rate quickens, adrenaline finally kicking in, pushing aside the distraction of personal drama.

This is hockey. This is what I know, what I'm good at, what makes sense when nothing else does.

The lights dim as we reach the mouth of the tunnel. The crowd noise rises to a fever pitch. I close my eyes, taking one deep breath, centering myself in the moment.

"And now," the announcer's voice booms through the arena, "your Central University Wolves!"

Spotlights sweep across the ice as we pour out of the tunnel, the home crowd erupting in cheers and stomping feet. The sound washes over me, through me, electric and alive. I scan the stands as I circle the ice, looking for Hannah among the sea of blue and white. Too many faces, too much movement to pick her out.

Warm-ups pass in a blur of skating drills and shooting practice. Before I know it, we're lining up for the national anthem, then the starting whistle, and suddenly the game is on.

First shift, thirty seconds in, and I'm battling for the puck in the corner with Northeastern's captain, a big defenseman with a reputation for playing on the edge of dirty. He pins me against the boards, driving a forearm into my back just out of the refs' sightline.

"Welcome to the finals, pretty boy," he grunts, digging for the puck between my skates.

I twist away, using my lower center of gravity to create space, then fire a pass to Rodriguez cutting through the slot. The defenseman slashes at my ankles as I break free, but I ignore it, focusing on getting to the net.

Rodriguez shoots, the goalie blocks, and I crash the crease looking for the rebound. Another defenseman crosschecks me from behind, sending me sprawling across the crease. No call from the refs. I push myself up, skating back to the bench for a line change, frustration already building.

"They're playing physical early," Coach notes as I drop onto the bench. "Don't let them get under your skin. Play smart."

I nod, downing water from the bottle Miller passes me. My next shift begins with a defensive zone faceoff. Peterson wins the draw, and I circle behind our net to collect the puck for the breakout. As I look up ice, I see a gap in Northeastern's coverage—a lane to the neutral zone.

I accelerate, carrying the puck through center ice, the defense scrambling to adjust. Their gap control is off; I've caught them flat-footed. I curl wide at their blue line, creating an angle, then cut hard to the middle.

Their defenseman steps up to challenge, but I'm a step faster, dekeing to my forehand, then quickly to my backhand as I slip past him. It's just me and the goalie now. I lift my head, find the opening over his blocker, and fire.

The puck hits the post with a hollow ring, deflecting wide.

"Fuck," I mutter, circling back toward the bench for another change.

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