Page 193 of Check & Chase
“Must have been something terrible in a past life,” she quips, lightening the moment. “Cosmic punishment.”
I laugh, the tension finally breaking. “Brat.”
The arena is deafening. Gold and purple everywhere, pulsing with hostile energy. During warmups, I find Emma in the visiting team family section, sitting between my parents. She’s wearing my blue Bears jersey again, a beacon of support amid the Storm’s colors.
The game itself is a battle from the opening faceoff—tight checking, few scoring chances, both teams playing with desperate intensity. The first period ends scoreless.
In the second, we break through on a power play, Donovan deflecting my point shot past their screened goalie. The Storm answer five minutes later on a breakaway, tying the game 1-1 heading into the third.
Twenty minutes to take control of the series. Twenty minutes to prove the game two failure was a fluke.
The Storm score early in the third, a seeing-eye shot through traffic that our goalie never sees. I slam my stick against the boards in frustration.
“It’s not over,” Coach reminds us. “There’s plenty of time.”
I spot Emma in the crowd while I wait for my next shift. She leans forward, fist against her mouth—she’s nervous.
That makes two of us.
Back on the ice, I carry the puck through the neutral zone, see an opening on the right side, and cut hard toward the net. The Storm defenseman steps up to challenge, but I spin off the check, maintainingpossession. Their second defenseman commits to me, leaving Donovan open on the far side.
I feather a pass through the crease, textbook tape-to-tape. Donovan one-times it into the open net before their goalie can recover.
Tie game. Nine minutes remaining.
The momentum shifts, our forecheck finding the weaknesses Tyler identified. We trap them in their zone shift after shift, wearing down their defense with sustained pressure below the goal line.
With three minutes left, the opportunity presents itself—a turnover behind their net, the puck sliding right to me as I curl around the goal. Their defenseman is caught flat-footed, their goalie out of position. One quick move to my backhand, and the puck finds the top corner.
3-2 Bears.
The bench erupts, guys leaning over the boards, pounding on the glass. Three minutes to hold the lead. Three minutes that stretch into an eternity as the Storm press for the equalizer.
Final buzzer. Bears win 3-2. Series lead 2-1.
The locker room is loud but controlled—this isn’t over, just one step closer. Coach’s post-game speech emphasizes the work still ahead, but there’s pride in his voice.
“Mitchell,” he calls as I head for the showers. “Good bounce-back game. You did amazing out there.”
The simple praise means more than any media accolade could.
Emma is waiting with my parents when I emerge, her face glowing. She doesn’t rush to me like some of the other players’ girlfriends, maintaining respectful distance in the team space.
But when I reach her, I don’t hesitate to pull her into a hug, lifting her slightly off her feet.
“You were fucking fantastic,” she whispers in my ear. “That pass to Donny. The goal. All of it.”
“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” I murmur back. “Not with you watching.”
My parents offer their congratulations, Dad breaking down the highlights with his usual analytical eye, Mom simply squeezing my arm with maternal pride.
“Dinner?” Dad suggests. “There’s a great steakhouse near the hotel.”
“Rain check?” I ask, suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline crash hitting hard. “Think I need sleep more than food right now.”
Back at the hotel, Emma runs a bath while I check my phone. Several texts from teammates celebrating the win. One from Jackson, grudgingly acknowledging my goal. And another from Tyler.
Tyler:Fucking beautiful goal, Mitchell. Told you they couldn’t handle the pressure down low. One step closer.
