Page 106 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

The first period continues this way—close chances, physical play, neither team finding the back of the net. The frustration builds with each missed opportunity, each uncalled penalty, each shift that ends without the red light flashing.

Midway through the period, I'm forechecking hard in Northeastern's zone when their defenseman turns to play the puck up the boards. I see my chance and charge, pinning him against the glass with enough force that the water bottles on top of the net tremble.

The whistle blows immediately. Charging, two minutes.

As I skate toward the penalty box, I catch sight of the defenseman—still down on one knee, his teammates helping him up. Maybe I hit him harder than I realized. The home crowd boos the call, but I know it was the right one. I wasn't playing smart; I was playing angry.

I settle into the penalty box, watching as our PK unit takes the ice. Two minutes to think about how I'm letting my personal shit affect my game. Two minutes to get my head straight.

Then I spot him.

Three rows up from the glass, right across from the penalty box—Cade. Not alone; there's a group of guys with him I vaguely recognize from campus. And beside him, smiling like this is the best day of her life, is Megan.

My stomach twists, a toxic blend of anger and hurt rising in my throat. He brought her to my game. He positioned them where I couldn't miss them. The pettiness of it, the deliberate calculation, is so perfectly Cade that I'd almost admire it if I wasn't the target.

He notices me staring and raises his hand in a mocking wave, that shit-eating grin I've known my whole life plastered across his face. Megan follows suit, waving her fingers at me like we're old friends.

I look away, my hands clenching into fists. The penalty clock seems frozen, each second stretching endlessly as I force myself to focus on the ice, on my teammates battling to kill my penalty, on anything but the two people gleefully twisting the knife.

When the door finally opens and I'm free to rejoin the play, I hit the ice with renewed fury, channeling all my anger into speed, into physicality. I finish every check harder than necessary, battle for every inch of ice like my life depends on it.

"Easy, Connolly," Miller cautions during a TV timeout. "You're skating like you've got a vendetta. Play the game."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. He's right; I know he's right. But knowing and doing are different animals.

Late in the period, we're on the power play, our first of the game. I'm at the right circle, one-timer position, when Peterson threads a cross-ice pass through the defense. The puck lands perfectly on my tape, the goalie scrambling to adjust.

I don't hesitate, unleashing a slap shot toward the far corner. It's a perfect release, everything I have behind it, the kind of shot that feels right the moment it leaves your stick.

The goalie flashes his glove, somehow getting a piece of it. The puck deflects high, over the glass, out of play.

"Fuck!" I slam my stick against the ice in frustration, earning a warning glare from the ref.

The period ends scoreless, both teams heading to their respective locker rooms for intermission. Coach's assessment is blunt but fair—we're playing well, creating chances, but need to finish. Stay disciplined, stay focused, keep pressuring their defense.

I barely hear him, nodding in the right places while my mind races. Cade and Megan's presence feels like a personal attack, a deliberate attempt to throw me off my game on the most important night of the season. And it's working, which only makes me angrier.

By the time we return to the ice for the second period, I'm a mess of conflicting emotions, none of them conducive to playing my best hockey. The first shift passes in a blur of motion, my body functioning on auto-pilot while my mind spins uselessly.

On my second shift, disaster strikes.

I'm carrying the puck through the neutral zone when I spot Northeastern's captain lining me up for a hit. I try to chip the puck past him and take the contact, but he's anticipated my move. The hit catches me square, driving the air from my lungs, sending me sprawling onto the ice.

Worse, the puck goes directly to their winger, creating a two-on-one rush the other way. I scramble to my feet, racing back to help my defense, but I'm a step behind. They execute a perfect passing play, and the puck is in our net before I can get back into the play.

1-0 Northeastern.

Coach's face is thunderous as I return to the bench. "Bench!" he snaps at me, and I know I won't be seeing ice time again soon.

I sit, lungs still burning from the hit, watching as my teammates battle to erase the deficit I helped create. Minutes tick by, the middle of the period approaching, and I'm still glued to the bench. Coach hasn't even looked at me since the goal.

Finally, during a TV timeout, he crouches in front of me. "You ready to play hockey now? Or are you still in your head?"

"I'm ready," I say, meaning it.

"Prove it. Next shift."

My next shift starts with a neutral zone faceoff. Peterson wins it clean, and I collect the puck, curling back to build speed for the zone entry. I see Rodriguez open on the far wing and fire a crisp pass, hitting him in stride as he crosses Northeastern's blue line.

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