Page 41 of Cold Front
Coach AJ rolled the lines fast. Short shifts. Fresh legs.
Eight.
They won a faceoff in our zone. A quick pass. A shot from the blue line—traffic in front.
Logan snagged it out of the air. Whistle.
Six.
They weren’t letting up.
A turnover at the blue line sent their center flying down the ice. I chased, matching his stride. He cut inside—shoulder dropped, faking one way. I didn’t bite.
Body first. Stick second.
I shoved him off balance just as he released the shot. Logan blocked it with his chest, smothering the puck.
Whistle.
Four minutes.
The crowd was on their feet. My pulse pounded in my ears.
I glanced at the scoreboard. Four minutes never felt this long.
The Rebels called their last timeout.
I skated to the bench, sucking in deep breaths. Sweat dripped from my hairline, stinging my eyes. My legs burned, but I ignored it. Four minutes. That was it.
Coach AJ’s voice cut through the heavy breathing and the pounding music from the arena speakers. “No stupid penalties. No risky plays. Make them earn it.”
He looked at Logan. “Stay sharp, kid.”
Logan nodded, rolling his shoulders. Steady. Focused. We had him, and he had us.
Coach turned to me. “Win the next faceoff. Kill the clock.”
I met his eyes and gave a single nod. “Got it.”
The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the timeout. Four minutes.
We lined up for the faceoff in our zone. My heartbeat matched the erratic tap of my fingers against my stick. The ref dropped the puck.
I won the draw, tying up my opponent’s stick long enough for Micah to swoop in and clear it down the ice.
Three minutes.
They pressed harder. Their defensemen pinched in, and their forwards crashed the net, desperate for a rebound. I got my stick in passing lanes, blocked a shot off my shin—pain flared, but I stayed on my feet.
Two minutes.
They pulled their goalie. Empty net. Extra attacker.
I gritted my teeth as they swarmed our zone. Logan made a sprawling save, kicking the puck to the corner. Nico got there first, flicked it up the boards. Roman chipped it out to center ice.
It didn’t reach the net. I chased it down.
The crowd roared as I crossed the blue line, but their defense closed in fast. I had a step on them—one second, maybe less, to make a decision.
