Page 30 of Second Shot

Goal. Fourteen seconds into the game.

Fucking magic.

The crowd erupts in a wall of sound that rattles the glass, but I’m focused on Ryan’s celebration. Not the arms-raised-to-the-crowd theatrics, but the quick look he shoots me, satisfaction mixed with something else,something private that makes heat curl in my chest.

“Yeah.”Foster bangs his stick against the boards. “That’s how you set the fucking tone.”

But I know Denver won’t fold that easily. They’re a veteran team, built for the playoffs, and going down early only makes them more dangerous. When their top line hits the ice for the next shift, their energy is different. Every movement is sharper and more focused, like we’ve just poked a sleeping bear.

The response comes fast. Their power forward, a guy named Davidson who’s built like a freight train, gets behind Marlowe on a rush and beats Niko with a shot that finds the only hole in his armor. The goal comes so quickly after ours that the crowd barely has time to process what happened.

1-1, and it becomes obvious this feels like it’s going to be a war.

The first period becomes a showcase of everything that makes hockey beautiful and stressful. End-to-end rushes, bone-crushing hits, saves that seem to defy physics. Niko keeps us alive with a sprawling pad save that draws gasps from the crowd. Their goalie answers with a glove save on Petrov that’s so spectacular even our bench applauds.

But it’s the little things between Ryan and me that I find myself cataloging. The way he finds open ice when I’m carrying the puck. How he shields defenders from the front of the net, creating space for my shots. The quick taps of his stick when he wants the puck, the subtle head movements that tell me where he’s going next.

We’re building something that goes beyond hockey, and the scary part is how natural it feels. How can I be so in sync with someone who was my enemy? I can’t wrap my head around that. I hated him so much, and now, I see him and my stomach swirls with anticipation. I fucking love playing hockey with the guy.

I fucking love doing a lot of things with the guy.

The second period brings more of the same, beautiful hockey punctuated by moments of violence that remind everyone why this sport isn’t for the faint of heart. Knox drops the gloves with their enforcer after a questionable hit on D’Angelo, landing a right cross that echoes through the arena. The crowd loves it, but I can see the cost in our energy levels.

Denver scores again midway through the period on a power play that’s a thing of beauty. Five passes, perfect picks, and a one-timer that Niko has no chance on. 2-1, and suddenly the Valentine’s Day crowd is getting restless.

That’s when Ryan and I find our magic again.

It starts with a defensive-zone faceoff, Petrov winning it back to Marlowe. It’s a simple breakout, nothing fancy, but Ryan times his break perfectly, and I’m already moving to support him. The Denver defense tries to squeeze us toward the boards, but Ryan slips a pass through a gap that shouldn’t even be there.

I take it in stride, feeling that familiar surge of acceleration as I hit open ice. Their defenseman is backpedaling, trying to cut off the angle, but Ryan’s driving to the net again and suddenly there are too many options.

I wait until the last possible second, then thread a pass between the defenseman’s skates. Ryan’s stick is waiting, and his redirection catches their goalie completely off guard.

2-2, and the building erupts like we just won the Cup.

But what hits me as we celebrate isn’t the goal itself. It’s the way Ryan looks at me afterward. His eyes burn into me, seeking my approval. It’s a heady thing to have Ryan Caldwell looking to me as ifmypraise is all he needs. Fuck the crowd. Fuck the coach. Ryan wants to see that I’m proud of what he just did. The trust implicit in that look makes something twist in my chest.

If he knew who I was, he wouldn’t care about my opinion at all.

The third period is a masterclass in playoff hockey, tight checking, every shot contested, both goalies standing on their heads. The crowd is on its feet for the final ten minutes, sensing that someone needs to step up and seize the moment. I’m praying it’s us.

We get our chance with three minutes left. Denver takes a penalty, a stupid cross-check in front of their net, and suddenly we’re on the power play with everything on the line.

Coach Donnelly looks down the bench and points at our line. “Go win this thing.”

The next two minutes feel like slow motion and hyper-speed simultaneously. Ryan and I work the puck around the zone like we’ve been doing it for years, creating chances that their penalty killers barely manage to disrupt. Petrov gets a shot that rings off the crossbar. I fire one that their goalie saves with his blocker, but the rebound sits in the crease for what feels like an eternity.

With thirty seconds left on the power play, Ryan makes a pass that only I could have seen coming, a backhanded feed through traffic that finds me alone at the top of the circle. I don’t think, just shoot, putting everything I have behind a slap shot that beats their goalie clean.

3-2. The crowd loses its collective mind.

But Denver isn’t done. With two minutes left in regulation, they pull their goalie and throw everything they have at us. Six attackers, chaos in front of our net, and a scramble that seems to last forever.

The tying goal comes with thirty-seven seconds left. It’s a deflection off Rawlins’ skate that Niko never sees. 3-3, and suddenly we’re heading to overtime with our playoff hopes hanging in the balance.

Fuck.

Three-on-three overtime is pure insanity, and I both love and hate every second of it. The stress to perform is unbearable. The extra space amplifies everything. Mistakes become goals, great plays fall short, and every shift feels like it could end the game.

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