Page 127 of On Ice

“The whole team is,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the swell of pride I feel watching Evan strip the puck from Duchaine at our blue line.

The game has been a back-and-forth battle from the opening face-off. Montreal scored first, a seeing-eye shot from the point that somehow found its way through traffic. Jackson tied it minutes later on a beautiful feed from Rodriguez. The Renegades took the lead again in the second, but Mills pinched at exactly the right moment to hammer home a rebound just before the period ended.

Now, with ten minutes left in a tie game, the tension in the arena is thick enough to touch. If we win, we clinch the final playoff spot. If we lose, our season ends tonight. I don’t want to see Evan go through that heartbreak. I’d give anything to protect him from losing. But the things I could do to help him win, he’d never forgive me for doing. So I’m stuck watching the game like every other slob, praying luck is on his side tonight.

A Montreal defender fumbles a routine pass, and suddenly Rodriguez is on the breakaway, nothing between him and the goalie. The crowd surges to its feet. Rodriguez dekes forehand, backhand, tries to tuck it five-hole—

The goalie stones him with a pad save that defies physics.

“Fuck,” I mutter, clenching my jaw.

Marco gives me a sidelong glance but says nothing.

With eight minutes remaining, Noah makes a spectacular glove save on Duchaine, snatching a shot labeled for the top corner. The replay shows on the center-ice screen, drawingappreciative gasps even from the Montreal supporters scattered throughout the arena.

“Noah is earning his contract tonight,” Derek comments, running a hand over his white hair.

The pace accelerates as time winds down. Neither team willing to make a fatal mistake, both desperately seeking an opening. Miller nearly costs us with a turnover at our blue line, but Reeves bails him out with a perfectly timed stick check. Seconds later, Evan leads a three-on-two rush that fails to materialize when a Montreal defender makes a diving play to break up his centering pass.

The crowd is on its feet now with every rush, every shot, every save. Six minutes left. Then five. The tension in my body builds with each passing moment, a tightly coiled spring ready to snap.

“This is bad for your blood pressure,” Marco murmurs. “Your ears are red.”

I roll my eyes. “My blood pressure is fine.”

“You haven’t blinked in two minutes.”

I turn to him and give three exaggerated blinks. “Better? Will you stop nagging me now?”

He grins. “Yeah, I’ll lay off. Want another drink?”

“Of course I do.” I hand him my empty glass.

With 4:32 remaining, disaster. Deck takes a holding penalty, sending Montreal to the power play. I keep my face impassive, but inside, a cold dread spreads through my chest. Their power play is lethal, converting at nearly 30% at home.

Coach Daniels sends out his top penalty kill unit, Evan, Jackson, Torres, and Mills. A risky move given how much ice time they’ve already logged, but the right call. They know each other’s movements instinctively at this point in the season.

Montreal sets up their power play with practiced precision. The puck moves around the perimeter, point to half-wall, half-wall to goal line, back to the point. Our penalty killers rotate in response, maintaining perfect positioning in the shooting lanes. Torres blocks a one-timer from the point, the puck catching him in the shin.

The first minute of the penalty kill passes without a quality chance for Montreal. Our fans stomp and cheer with each successful clear, the noise building as time ticks down. With forty seconds left in the penalty, Evan anticipates a cross-ice pass and intercepts it, immediately charging up ice.

The Montreal defender backs off, respecting Evan’s speed. Shorthanded, Evan doesn’t have support, it’s a one-on-one rush. He cuts across the front of the net, drawing the goaltender with him, then spins back to his forehand, firing as he falls.

The red light flashes. The arena erupts.

I remain where I am while Derek and the team staff leap to their feet, maintaining my composure even as something wild and fierce surges in my chest. On the ice, Evan is mobbed by his teammates.

It’s not over yet though. Montreal isn’t going to accept defeat that easily.

Montreal pulls their goalie with a minute left, sending six attackers against our exhausted defenders. Noah makes three consecutive saves in a frantic sequence that has the crowdscreaming. Mills clears the puck once, then again, buying precious seconds.

The final minute stretches like an eternity. I find myself yelling encouragement to the team without realizing it. It’s impossible to keep my composure now. Victory is so fucking close, I can taste it. And if I can taste it, Evan is probably having a meltdown right now. My hands are shaking and I’m breathless. I can’t imagine having to play while feeling this overwhelmed by emotions.

I almost swallow my tongue when Duchaine nearly ties the game with thirty seconds left, his shot ringing off the post with a sound that echoes through the arena. Evan wins a crucial defensive zone face-off with fifteen seconds remaining. Torres sends the puck around the boards, where Jackson battles two Montreal players to keep it pinned. The clock winds down. Ten seconds. Five.

The horn sounds. Game over.

The Ice Hawks have clinched the final playoff spot.

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