Page 93 of Cold Comeback
The first period was feeling-out time. Both goalies looked sharp, and the few chances that developed got snuffed out quickly. The crowd was into it—louder than usual—like they sensed something important was happening.
Back in the locker room during the first intermission, Coach kept it simple. "Stay patient. Our chances will come."
In the second period, the tempo changed. Midway through, Norfolk took a penalty—boarding Knox, which was both stupid and dangerous. Our power play unit took the ice.
The puck movement was crisp. Everyone knew where everyone else would be. When Linc fed me a pass at the blue line, I didn't have to think about the next play. I knew Gideon would be driving toward the net, creating space. Pluto would be cycling low, keeping their defense honest.
The pass I threaded through traffic found Gideon's tape where I knew it would be. He one-timed it past their goalie.
Our celebration was pure joy. No calculation or speculation about how it would look in highlight packages. It was raw satisfaction with our textbook execution.
The crowd stayed on their feet for the following three shifts, and I realized something was happening in Richmond. These weren't polite hockey fans tolerating minor league entertainment. They were believers.
Norfolk tied it with eight minutes left in regulation. It was a lucky bounce off Bricks's glove that squeezed through his five-hole. The arena went quiet for about thirty seconds before the noise returned, doubled.
"Finish it!" someone yelled from the stands.
We got another power play with three minutes left, but their penalty kill held. Regulation ended 1-1, and suddenly we were playing overtime hockey on New Year's Eve.
Four-on-four overtime was chaotic. More room to move, but the space magnified every mistake. Norfolk had a two-on-one that Bricks stoned with a glove save. We answered with a rush that hit their crossbar so hard the ping echoed through the arena.
Then, with forty-seven seconds left in overtime, good fortune was on our side.
Knox broke up a pass at our blue line and immediately looked for the outlet. I was already moving, reading the developing rush, and his pass hit me in stride at center ice. Gideon drove down the right side, drawing their defenseman. The goalie cheated toward him, anticipating a pass.
Time slowed. I saw the entire play developing like I was staring at a chessboard.
I held the puck for one extra beat, signaling a pass to Gideon. The defenseman committed. The goalie shifted.
Then, I buried a wrist shot short side, top shelf, before their goalie could recover.
The arena exploded with cheers.
I'd scored game-winners before, but nothing like that. The noise was deafening. Fans hugged strangers. The entire building shook as bodies jumped and stomped and celebrated.
My teammates poured over the boards like we'd won the Stanley Cup. Gideon reached me first, sweeping me up in a hug that lifted my skates off the ice. Knox screamed something I couldn't hear over the crowd. Pluto tackled both of us, followed by Linc and everyone else.
Even Bricks left his crease to join the pile, his mask pushed up, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.
When we returned to the locker room, the guys were still coming down from the high of overtime. Someone had turned up the music, and Pluto was attempting to dance while still wearing his shoulder pads.
"Did you see their faces when Drake scored?" Bricks was saying to anyone who'd listen. "That goalie looked like he'd seen a ghost."
"Textbook snipe," Knox agreed, toweling off his hair. "Kid picked his corner and buried it."
I was still floating, with the buzz of the goal humming through my body.
Wren appeared in the doorway with her clipboard and an expression that meant business. "Gentlemen, the local media wants a few minutes. The usual post-game stuff, but they're excited about the win. Try to stay coherent."
We gathered in the hallway outside our locker room, still in our gear. The small media contingent had grown—I recognized reporters from the Richmond paper and the local TV station, but there were also faces I didn't know. Word was getting out that the Reapers might actually be worth watching.
"Hell of a game, Drake," said Jim Sadler from theRichmond Observer. "How's it feel to be the overtime hero on New Year's Eve?"
Standard softball question. Easy answer. "Team win. The guys played great, and Bricks was outstanding. Just happy we could give the fans something to celebrate."
"But this has to feel like vindication," pressed another reporter I didn't recognize. "After everything you've been through, scoring the winner in a game like this—it's almost poetic justice."
There it was—the narrative they couldn't bury.
