Page 94 of My Pucked Up Enemy

"Play smart. Play fierce. And remember, play for the guy next to you. That’s how we win."

"Let’s go," Parker says, loud.

"No mercy," I add, thumping my stick.

The horn sounds. We break. We skate to the line.

When the anthem ends, I lock eyes with James. He slaps my pads.

"Showtime," he says.

Puck drops.

The first period is crystal clear.

I see everything. Every pass. Every angle. Every loose puck. I’m anticipating two plays ahead. My body’s electric but controlled, every save is with purpose. The glove’s hot tonight—snatching a wrister out of midair like I was born doing it.

The fans go wild. They’re behind us full throttle.

But every time I reset between whistles, I glance toward her seat and she's there, watching intently. And every time I see her, something inside me steadies, like all the noise and pressure compress into a single point of focus—her. It’s not just calming, it’s grounding. Knowing she’s there, believing in me, makes every save feel like it matters more. Makes me want to be the guy she sees when, she looks at me that way. Fierce. Unshakable. Worthy.

Second period hits harder. Our D tightens. Opponents start crashing the net, trying to rattle me. I block a low shot with my pad and then another. Scramble save. Players chirping. One even tries to sneak a jab under my blocker.

I don’t bite.

Nina’s watching.

I keep it cool. Keep it clean. We’re up 2-0 now. The guys are pumped. I hear Connor yelling encouragement like a general. I hear Ethan laugh after checking someone clean.

In the locker room during second intermission, the energy is like bottled fire. Sweat steams off our bodies, gear half-hung as we breathe, hydrate, and reset. Coach walks in with a stare sharp enough to cut through steel.

“Alright,” Coach Stephens says, voice firm, low. “Twenty minutes. That’s all that’s left between you and a statement. You’ve earned this lead, but earning a win? That takes more.”

James is pacing near the stalls, stick bouncing between his palms.

“We close the door,” he says. “They don’t get a breath.”

“Damn right,” Connor adds. “They’re gonna regret stepping on our ice.”

Coach nods. “Exactly. Stay aggressive, but don’t get sloppy. You see them pressing? Let them. Then punish ‘em. Alex,” he looks at me,“you’re in the zone. Stay there.”

I nod once. “They’re not getting one past me.”

Ethan throws a towel across the room. “Let’s break their spirits, boys. Break ‘em and send ‘em home early.”

“Hey,” Parker says with a grin, “just don’t lose it and go full wrecking ball on the boards again. My ribs are still recovering from last time. I don't need a retaliation hit like that again.”

Laughter erupts, quick and sharp. It cuts the tension just enough to breathe.

Coach finishes, quieter now. “Finish what you started. No mercy.”

Sticks slap the floor. Gloves bang on stalls. We rise.

Third period.

This is where legends are made.

I’m locked in.

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