Page 89 of Second Shot

I laugh. “Then let’s do that.”

Game 1 turns into an instant classic. Lead changes, heavy hits, the kind of hockey that pulls you in and doesn’t let go. We’re trailing 4–3 with under two minutes left when Ryan makes a play I’ll never forget. He strips their defenseman clean behind the net, spins, and fires a blind pass through traffic. I’m already cutting into the slot, and all I have to do is finish.

The goal ties it. The overtime winner, five minutes later, comes off Ryan’s stick after I create the turnover at center ice. We sweep the next two games at home, then close out the series in Chicago with a 2-1 overtime victory that sends us to the Stanley Cup Finals for the first time in franchise history.

Not only did Ryan show Chicago what dipshits they were for trading him, we just made history for the Seadragons. It’s a beautiful moment and Ryan looks like he won the fucking lottery. He got his payback and his dreams arecoming true. But I’d be lying if I didn’t secretly celebrate that Chicago traded him to the Seadragons. We wouldn’t be a couple if they hadn’t. Naturally, I keep that to myself and pretend to hate Chicago right along with him.

The locker room afterward is pure chaos, champagne spraying in arcs that catch the fluorescent lights, music thumping so loud it vibrates through the concrete walls, guys laughing and hugging anyone within reach. The air smells like sweat and the sharp bite of alcohol, while ice from the celebration buckets crunches underfoot as players slip and slide across the wet floor.

Foster’s standing on a bench belting out a Taylor Swift song, his voice cracking with emotion and exhaustion. Niko’s got champagne in his hair and down his jersey, grinning like a maniac while Kincaid tries to dump an entire bottle over his head. Marlowe, our stoic alternate captain, has tears streaming down his face as he embraces guys half his age, telling them they need to cherish the moment.

“We’re actually going to the Cup Finals,” Ryan says when I sit down beside him. He sounds dazed.

“It still doesn’t feel real, does it?” I laugh, wiping sweat and champagne off my face with a towel.

He shakes his head. “No. Not even a little.”

I meet his gaze. “And we’re playing against Savannah for the cup, of all teams.”

“Yeah, I know. This time we’ll wipe the floor with them.”

“From your lips to God’s ears,” I murmur.

“They’re going to be ready for us though,” Ryan says.

I shrug. “That’s okay. It goes both ways. We’ll be ready for them too.”

Three days later, we’re in the locker room of the Seadragon Center for Game 1 of the Stanley Cup Finals. The team buzzes with nervous energy twenty minutes before puck drop. Guys are going through their individual routines, but not one of us seems serene. Foster is tapping his stick against his shin, and D’Angelo is pacing like a caged animal. I’ve been compulsively checking and rechecking my gear, and my throat feels dry, despite drinking water constantly.

Coach Donnelly stands at the center of the room, clipboard in hand, waiting for the right moment. When the chatter dies down and all eyes turn to him, he clears his throat.

“Alright, boys. They’ve seen the tape. Hell, they’ve beat us before. So yeah, Savannah knows our tendencies. They’ll be ready for our usual breakouts, our power play setups, even our line rotations.”

The room goes completely silent. Every player is locked in, hanging on every word.

“That’s fine.” He pauses, letting that sink in. “Because tonight, we don’t give them the usual.”

We nod because this isn’t exactly a surprise. We’ve been running different drills the last few days. If your opponent can predict your moves, you need to change your moves. Switch it up so they can’t stop you before you even get started.

“Petrov, I want you switching sides on the point more often. Keep their PK scrambling. Make ‘em guess where the shot’s coming from. Gabe, Ryan, don’t get cute with your neutral zone entries. Mix it up. Sometimes dump and chase, sometimes carry it in tight. Make their D think twice every time you cross the blue line.”

I nod, already visualizing the adjustments. Beside me, Ryan’s bouncing slightly on his toes, that focused energy building.

Coach continues. “And listen up, off the cycle, we’re going to start using the low-high pass more. Pull their defense down, then feed the point. We know their goalie tracks laterally better than vertically, so we’ll exploit that.”

The entire team is nodding, trusting Coach to give us a win.

Coach shrugs. “They’re going to expect us to change things up a little, but overall, they’ll expect us to run our system like we always do.It’s easy to fall back on what we know really well. But we’re going to tweak things more than they expect to throw them off balance. Make them adjust tous.”

“Yes, Coach,” a few guys shout.

“But we can’t be rigid.” Coach’s voice gets harder, more intense. “If something isn’t working,adapt. Don’t wait for the second period. Don’t wait for me to tell you. Trust what you’re seeing. Communicate. Be smart.”

He looks around the room, making eye contact with each of us.

“This series isn’t going to be won by whoever’s fancier. It’s going to be won by the team that executes the best when the game gets messy. And I guarantee, it’s going to be fucking sloppy out there. Chaotic. They want this as bad as we do, but we’re not going to let them have it.”

The energy in the room is better now, guys nodding, feeding off Coach’s intensity. You wouldn’t think, after playing hockey this long, we’d still need a pep talk, but we do. This moment is huge. Honestly? It’s terrifying. We don’t need to win every game, but we need to win at least four. It’s the moment of truth for us, and that shit is humbling.

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