Page 50 of Gamechanger

"Good," Blaise nodded. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he added, "Because I've been working on some truly spectacular chirps for Michaels. You're gonna love them."

I chuckled. "Can't wait to hear them."

As the guys continued to discuss strategy and trade barbs about Michaels, I found my resolve strengthening. Yes, I was smaller. Yes, Michaels had gotten the better of me before. But I wasn't alone in this. I had a team behind me, and more importantly, I had something to prove – not just to Michaels or the guys, but to myself.

I stood up, rolling my shoulders back. "Hey," I called out, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. All eyes turned to me. "I appreciate the concern, guys. Really. But let's not give Michaels more credit than he deserves. He's just another player, and we're a better team. Let's focus on winning, not on whatever crap he might pull."

The night before the game, I lay awake, my mind racing. But instead of dwelling on my size or Michaels' taunts, I focused on Moose's journey. If he could face his deepest fears in therapy, I could face mine on the ice.

***

The roar of the crowd faded to a dull hum as I stepped onto the ice, my skates cutting clean lines across the fresh surface. The familiar scent of cold and sweat filled my nostrils, grounding me in the moment. I caught sight of Moose in the stands, his broad frame easy to spot even from a distance. His presence steadied me like a lighthouse in a storm.

Coach Fraser's words echoed in my head as I took my position for the face-off. "Use your speed, create opportunities." I flexed my fingers inside my gloves, bouncing lightly on my skates.

The puck dropped, and the game exploded into motion. From the first shift, it was clear Michaels' team was playing for blood. Bodies slammed against the boards with sickening thuds, sticks clashed with more force than necessary.

Michaels wasted no time zeroing in on me. During our first encounter, he slammed me into the boards, his elbow conveniently finding my ribs.

"What's wrong, little man?" he sneered, his breath hot against my ear. "That big Russian's not protecting you today?"

I gritted my teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. Instead, I channeled my anger into speed, twisting away from him and racing down the ice. The puck found my stick, and I sent a beautiful pass to Blaise, who buried it in the net.

As we celebrated the goal, I caught Michaels' eye and couldn't resist a wink. His face darkened with rage.

The rest of the first period was a blur of speed and tension. Every time I touched the puck, Michaels was there, a looming presence of aggression and taunts. But I was ready for him now, using my agility to dance just out of his reach.

In the second period, things got uglier. Michaels caught me with a high stick, sending me sprawling onto the ice. My vision swam, the taste of blood sharp in my mouth. The ref's whistle blew, and I heard the roar of my teammates' outrage.

As I struggled to my feet, I saw Sergei squaring up to Michaels, looking like he was ready to drop gloves. I skated over quickly, putting a hand on Sergei's chest.

"Don't," I said, spitting blood onto the ice. "He's not worth it."

Sergei's eyes met mine, a question in them. I nodded, and he backed off, but not before growling something in Russian that made Michaels' eyes widen.

The resulting power play led to another goal for us, putting us up 2-0. As I skated back to the bench, I caught Coach Fraser's approving nod.

By the third period, Michaels was fuming. He came at me hard, clearly aiming to take me out of the game. But this time, instead of trying to match his physicality, I used my speed and agility to dance around him.

"What's wrong, big man?" I taunted, skating circles around him. "Can't keep up?"

The frustration on his face was sweeter than any goal. He lunged for me, but I was already gone, streaking down the ice with the puck. I heard him cursing behind me as I set up another beautiful assist.

In the final minutes, with our team up 3-1, Michaels made one last desperate attempt. He charged at me full-speed, clearly intending to crush me against the boards. Time seemed to slow down. I saw him coming, saw the rage in his eyes, the tension in his body as he prepared for impact.

At the last possible second, I sidestepped. Michaels, unable to stop his momentum, slammed into the boards with a resounding crash. The crowd gasped, then erupted into cheers as I scooped up the loose puck and raced toward the opponent's net.

The goalie didn't stand a chance. My shot found the back of the net just as the final buzzer sounded. 4-1. We'd done it.

As my teammates swarmed me, their jubilant cries filling the air, I sought out Michaels. He was still by the boards, being helped up by his teammates. Our eyes met across the ice. There was still anger there, but also something else. Respect, maybe. Or at least the beginning of it. I kept my mouth shut.

In the locker room after, Coach Fraser clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm. "Smart playing out there, Novak," he said, pride evident in his voice. "You found a way to beat him by playing your own game."

I beamed, the praise washing away years of doubt. As I looked around at my cheering teammates, I felt a sense of belonging I'd never experienced before. I wasn't just the small, fast guy anymore. I was Finn Novak, and I'd proven I could stand tall against anyone.

Later that night, the adrenaline of the game still racing through my veins, I found myself on Moose's balcony. The cool Portland air carried the scent of rain and spring around the corner, a fine mist settling on my skin. The city lights twinkled below us, a constellation of urban stars.

Moose leaned against the railing, his broad frame silhouetted against the night sky. "I saw what you did out there today," he said softly, turning to face me. "The way you stood up to Michaels. It was... incredible."

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