Page 132 of On Ice

Game 6 was pure will. Nothing left in the tank, running on fumes and desperation. Jackson somehow found enough energy to plant himself at the top of their crease all night, absorbing crosschecks, slashes, and verbal abuse. When he finally buried that rebound five minutes into the third, the building erupted like a volcano. Noah did the rest, standing on his head with nineteen saves in the final period alone. 3-1 Ice Hawks.

And now here we are. Game 7. One night. One final shot at the Cup.

The locker room is oddly quiet. No music pumping through speakers, no chatter bouncing off the walls. Just the sounds of tape being wrapped around sticks, velcro fastenings being secured, the occasional clink of skate blades against the floor. We’ve said all there is to say over the last six games. Forty-one weeks of hockey. Distilled to this single night.

“How’s the ankle?” I ask Torres as he finishes wrapping it with what has to be an entire roll of tape.

He gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Ask me tomorrow.”

I nod, understanding completely. Pain is just a distraction, information at this point, and none of us are listening.

The ice gleams under the arena lights as we emerge for warmups, pristine and perfect, waiting to record our history. Across the rink, the Titans circle in their road whites, Westfield’s eyes briefly meeting mine as we cross paths. There’s a mutual respect there, an acknowledgment of the battle we’ve waged across six games.

Warmups pass in a blur of muscle memory. Dad and Matt wanted to be here, but they’re at the nursing home with Mom watching the game. That’s how it should be. I don’t want her to be alone. This way I can focus more effectively. The puck feels good off my stick, my edges cut clean and true. Noah is laser-focused in his net, stopping everything thrown his way. The crowd is already at full throat, sensing the magnitude of what’s about to unfold.

Back in the locker room for final preparations, Coach Daniels enters, and the room falls completely silent. He looks at each of us in turn, his face betraying none of the pressure he must feel.

“Sixty minutes,” he says finally. “Maybe more. That’s all that’s left of this season. Everything you’ve worked for, everything you’ve sacrificed, it all comes down to tonight.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words settle.

“There’s nothing tactical left to discuss,” he says gruffly. “You know them, they know you. It comes down to will now. Who wants it more.” His eyes find mine. “Remember who you are out there. Remember what got you here. Play your game, not theirs.”

Noah stands abruptly, his pads making him look twice his normal size. “Let’s fucking go,” he says, his voice rough with emotion. “This is our night.”

The final horn signals us out of the locker room and into the tunnel. The tunnel to the ice feels endless, the roar of the crowd growing louder with each step. The vibration runs through the concrete and up through my skates. My heart hammers against my ribs, not from exertion but from the moment’s gravity. This is what we dream about as kids, skating on frozen ponds, imagining the clock winding down in Game 7.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn to find Torres there, his eyes fierce with determination despite the pain I know is shooting through his leg with every stride.

“Captain,” he says simply. “Lead us home.”

I nod, a lump forming in my throat. I’m grateful for his faith in me. I’m proud to lead this great team. I just pray I don’t let my brothers down out there. This night means so much to all of us. If we fail, I’ll feel responsible. I can’t help it. I know they need my leadership now more than ever. If we lose, I’ll feel like I didn’t come through for them.

The national anthem seems to stretch forever, each note hanging in the air like time itself is reluctant to move forward, to reach the moment of reckoning. I scan the owner’s box and find Luca’s dark form by the glass window. He gives a single nod, but it speaks volumes to me.

The puck drops, and Game 7 begins.

The Titans come out flying, as if determined to end this early. Their forecheck is relentless, pinning us in our zone for shifts at a time. Noah weathers the storm, making three spectacular saves in the first five minutes. We’re on our heels, reacting instead of dictating.

“Weather it,” I call to my linemates as we change on the fly. “Find our game.”

Slowly, methodically, we start to push back. Mills makes a perfect outlet pass to spring Jackson on a partial breakaway, but Harmon, the Titans’ goalie, flashes the leather. The crowd groans collectively before immediately rising again in appreciation of the effort.

The first period ends scoreless, but the shot count tells the story: 14-6 for the Titans. In the locker room, Noah removes his mask, his face sheened with sweat despite the arena’s chill.

“I’ve got the crease,” he says. “Find us one at the other end.”

The second period brings a shift in momentum. Rodriguez dangles through two Titans defenders and feeds me a perfect pass in the slot. I fire it high glove-side where Harmon has been vulnerable all series, but he somehow gets a piece of it. The puck deflects off his trapper and clangs off the crossbar, the sound reverberating through the arena like a gunshot.

“Keep coming,” Torres shouts from the bench. “He’s shaky.”

Midway through the period, catastrophe strikes. Westfield intercepts a clearing attempt by Miller and finds Alvarez with a no-look pass. Alvarez’s shot changes direction off Reeves’ stick, leaving Noah with no chance. 1-0 Titans.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The crowd deflates momentarily before rallying, trying to will energy back into our legs. We push for the equalizer, hemming the Titans in their zone for almost two full minutes near the end of the period, but can’t solve Harmon.

As the horn sounds, I want to slam my stick against the boards in frustration. But I restrain myself. I need to lead, not freak out. My team will panic if I look like I’m panicking. But truth be told, Iampanicking. Twenty minutes left in our season, and we’re trailing. That can’t fucking be how it ends for us.

---