Page 40 of Cold Front
Diving forward, I poked the puck away from their guy, redirecting it straight to Hunter, who caught it, spun, and roofed it.
3-1, Mavericks.
The arena exploded.
Hunter skated straight to the glass, fists pumping as the student section lost their minds. Roman tackled him in celebration. I let out a breath, skating toward them, a rare grin breaking through.
We had a two-goal lead.
But the game was far from over.
With less than a minute left in the second period, everything shifted.
A bad bounce off the boards sent the puck skipping past Micah. Their winger was on it in a flash, cutting toward the slot. Too much space.
I lunged, stick outstretched. Just a second too late.
Their winger took the shot.
Logan got a piece of the puck, but not enough. The puck trickled behind him, slow, inevitable, and crossed the line.
3-2.
Our crowd groaned. Their bench erupted.
I exhaled hard, skating toward Logan. “Shake it off.”
He nodded, jaw tight. “I got it.”
We reset at center ice, grinding through the final seconds of the period. No more mistakes. No more bad bounces. When the buzzer sounded, we skated off, but the energy in the arena had shifted.
The Rebels had life now. And we had twenty minutes to shut them down.
By the time we hit the ice for the third, it felt different. Tighter. Heavier.
We had a one-goal lead, but it didn’t feel like enough. The Mavericks’ bench was loud, but theirs? Louder. Momentum was a dangerous thing.
Coach AJ’s voice cut through the noise. “Play smart. Play simple. Finish strong. They’ve got the momentum—we need to take it back.”
I tapped my stick against the boards and nodded to the guys. Time to lock it down.
The puck dropped.
The Rebels came hard, faster than before, like they could smell blood in the water. Every shift, every battle along the boards, every loose puck—it all felt like a fight.
Micah swiped at a loose puck in front of our net, sending it away with a desperate backhand. Nico lifted it down the ice to buy us a few seconds to breathe.
We had chances to extend the lead—Roman blasted a shot that clanged off the post, Hunter nearly jammed in a rebound—but their goalie shut us down.
Fifteen minutes left.
The tension crawled up my spine. My lungs burned, but I didn’t let it show.
Twelve minutes.
Another blocked shot. Another dump-in. Another battle in the corner.
Ten.
