Page 129 of My Pucked Up Enemy

2–2.

I smack my stick once, then reset. No time to stew. This is it.

Every shot feels like it’s traveling in slow motion. Every save is another breath stolen.

The bench is on fire. James shouts from the bench: “Let’s fucking end this!”

With four minutes left, we get the faceoff in their zone.

Connor lines up at the dot next to Edmonton’s captain and grins. “Hope you stretched, old man.”

The guy growls, “I’m about to dance circles around you.”

Parker leans in from the wing. “You skating tonight or just coasting on reputation?”

Another Oiler growls, “You’re not even a threat.”

Connor fires back, “Then you won’t mind watching us light the lamp again.”

Connor wins it clean, dropping the puck back to Dillon at the point. Dillon fakes a shot, drawing the defender, then slides it across the blue line to Parker. He catches it in stride, glances once, sees the lane open up and lets it rip.

The puck rockets off his stick, slicing through a narrow gap between bodies crashing the slot.

The goalie lunges.

Too late.

Boom.

Bar down.

3–2 Acers.

“Townsend!” I scream from the crease.

He skates past, pointing his stick at the crowd. “This is our barn!”

But it’s not over.

Oilers pull their goalie with 90 seconds left. They come in waves. Pucks flying. Bodies flying. It’s chaos.

I make save after save. One bounces off the post. Another hits my chest and drops in front. I cover it just before their winger crashes the crease.

“Where’s the whistle?” I bark.

The ref finally blows it dead. Twelve seconds left.

Faceoff in our zone.

I meet Connor’s eyes. “Lock this down. We're not giving them another inch.”

He nods.

The puck drops. Their center wins it. Shot comes in hard—

I dive.

Glove outstretched.

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