Page 111 of My Pucked Up Enemy

But for me? It’s a detonation.

Her touch grounds me and guts me at the same time.

I close my eyes. Let it ride through me. One more deep breath. One more nod to the guy next to me.

“Let’s fucking go,” I mutter.

Acers are down three games to two but now we have home ice advantage.

The horn blares.

We take the ice.

The crowd cheers the moment we skate out. Fans are on their feet, roaring. Flashing lights pulse to the music. Towels whirl in the upper decks. It’s deafening and exactly what I need.

The drop of the puck is a jolt to the system. Instantly, it’s war.

They come out hot. Fast. Physical. Their center wins the first draw and hurls it toward our net within seconds. I catch it clean but hard, stinging through my glove like a warning shot.

“Alright,” I mutter, flicking the puck toward the ref. “Let’s dance.”

The first period is chaos. End to end. Bodies crashing into boards. Sticks clacking like sabers. I stay low, locked in, every nerve tuned to the puck.

Midway through the period, they get a breakaway. I charge out, cut down the angle, and block it with my chest. Rebound trickles loose. I dive on it.

Whistle.

I shove myself up as the crowd chants my name.

James skates over and taps my helmet. “That’s what I’m talking about, Beast Mode.”

I don’t answer. I’m already replaying the next possible angle in my head.

The second period is worse. Their power play is relentless. We’re down a man because Ethan’s in the box for slashing. I face four shots in thirty seconds. Block. Glove. Pad. Chest.

Fourth shot goes top corner. I leap with my glove extended.

Caught. Snatched from midair.

The arena goes nuclear.

Even the opposing bench slaps their sticks.

Coach yells, but it’s background noise now. I’m moving on instinct.

Every slapshot is a chance to prove something. Every block is a reminder—I’m here and I matter.

When we get to the third, it’s still 0-0.

I skate in tight circles during the TV timeout, breathing through my mask.

Control what you can. Let go of what you can’t.

The mantra loops with my breath. Nina’s voice is in my head. Her calm. Her fire.

With six minutes left, Connor scores.

Bar down. Glorious. The crowd is now on their feet.

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