Page 95 of My Pucked Up Enemy

They fire twenty-two shots this period. Twenty-two. A few off deflections. One off a brutal rebound. I get a toe on a breakaway with less than four minutes left. Crowd’s losing their minds. Coach is pacing. Bench is on edge.

I don’t hear any of it.

All I hear is my breathing.

All I see is her in my mind.

Final minute. They pull their goalie.

Empty net. Six attackers. Bodies everywhere.

Shot. Blocked.

Another. Deflected.

One last one with four seconds left—bar down, or would’ve been. My glove flashes and snatches it clean.

The horn blares.

Game over.

Shutout.

The bench clears like we just won the Cup. They pile into me, shouting, helmets knocking, gloves slapping.

“Shutout king!” James screams.

“Stonewall!” Ethan howls.

Even Coach looks proud as hell, nodding from the bench before getting swarmed by the assistants.

But I’m not celebrating. Not really.

I’m scanning. Through the chaos. The lights. The confetti cannons firing for fan effect.

I’m looking for her.

I spot her near the tunnel just off to the side, half-shadowed. Waiting.

I peel away from the guys as they head to the locker room.

I don’t even take my helmet off until I reach her.

She’s just watching me. No smile. No tears. Just... present.

“Hey,” I say, my voice quieter than I expect.

She lifts her chin slightly. “Hey, great game!”

I pull off my blocker and glove. My hands are still shaking a little, buzzed from the rush. I tuck them under my arm.

“You said to play like I owned the ice.”

“You did.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you. Not just tonight. This whole season.”

She doesn’t answer right away.

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