Page 67 of My Pucked Up Enemy

Suddenly, in every way that counts, I feel that we’ve already won.

***

The buzzer sounds, and just like that, the puck drops.

The first period starts with heat, both teams tight and aggressive from the opening face-off. I sit up in the press box, headset snug against my ears as Coach Derek and Max’s voices feed into one side of the line, my observations into the other.

“They’re pinching early,” Max mutters.

“I see it,” Derek answers. “Let them come—we'll use it.”

“Vision,” I murmur into the headset. “Remind them. Cue the reset.”

Max relays it down to the bench, and I see James tap his helmet and nod to Mikey.

Ten minutes in, the breakthrough comes. Mikey makes a smooth cut to the center, draws a defender, and threads the puck to James, who one-touches it through a tight seam to Dillon. Dillon zigzags past two Colorado skaters and rifles a wrist shot top shelf. Score!

“Hell yes,” Derek says into the headset, and I find myself grinning.

They’re locked in.

I watch them cycle through lines, each shift reinforcing everything we’ve drilled these past weeks. Between whistles, I see Alex reset—one gloved hand tapping his pad twice, a grounding motion we practiced. Parker taps his stick on the ice, a signal to let go of the last play. Even James, known for emotional flare-ups, skates calmly to the bench after getting checked hard. No retaliation. Just grit.

By the second period, Colorado starts pushing harder.

Parker takes a brutal check into the boards that makes the whole arena wince. He stays down for a heartbeat too long, and my pulse spikes, but then he’s up. Calm. Controlled. He skates to the bench, jaw tight but eyes steady.

“He’s anchoring,” I whisper.

“Yeah,” Derek replies. “You trained that in. Damn good work.”

Colorado gets a power play after a questionable call, and tensions flare. James gets baited by a cheap shot, gloves twitching, but he doesn’t bite. He skates away, face neutral. The crowd boos. The penalty killers step up, and Alex makes a slick glove save to kill the momentum.

I exhale slowly.

“They’re holding,” I say into the mic. “They’re staying sharp.”

“We’ll see how long it lasts,” Derek replies. “But damn, it’s different.”

Then comes intermission.

The Zamboni rolls out as the lights dim and the spotlight turns toward the arena floor. It’s time for the Life Spark Dance Team.

The music pulses—upbeat, fierce, full of attitude. The girls march out, dressed in Acers-themed black and silver, and begin a choreographed number around the arena that mixes jazz hands with hip-hop precision. Spins, high kicks, and jumps are timed perfectly to the beat.

The crowd claps to the rhythm, then rises halfway through, cheering. Coach stands near the bench, arms crossed, mouth curled into a proud grin. Parker, wiping sweat with a towel, blinks a little too much.

“Tell anyone I’m crying, I’ll deny it,” he mutters into the headset.

“You just did,” I shoot back.

He snorts, and I can practically hear the smile in Derek’s voice. “We should make that halftime show permanent.”

When the girls finish their final pose with arms lifted and heads high, the entire arena rises to its feet. The applause is thunderous. I’m not the only one blinking fast.

I stand and clap with both hands, heart swelling. These girls didn’t just dance—they put on a show!

And then, it’s time.

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