Page 98 of Chasing The Goal
The HellBlades crest on my jersey feels heavier tonight, like it knows what’s on the line.
I tap my stick once against the boards as I skate by the bench. Logan answers with a tap of his own. Connor adjusts his helmet beside me, mouth tight with focus. Darren leans forward behind us on the D-line, jaw set, expression carved out of stone.
We’ve been through blood and bruises to get here.
Now we finish it.
The puck drops.
The first period is a knife fight. The Knights come out flying—tight formations, fast cycles, every line change like clockwork. They’re desperate. But so are we.
Skates carve into the ice like blades through butter. Stick taps echo like gunfire. I chase the puck down the boards, shoulder-checking a defenseman hard enough to make him stumble. Connor flies in behind me, scooping up the rebound and launching it into the slot—but their goalie snatches it midair like a damn magician.
We regroup. Shift change. Then again. We’re pressing, cycling, pushing them into corners, but they’re fast—quicker on the breakouts than I’ve seen all season.
Ten minutes in, they score.
Silence isn’t an option—the arena roars, half agony, half anger—but it feels like a blow to the chest. On the bench, Logan mutters a curse and slams his glove into his thigh.
But we answer five minutes later.
Logan pulls the puck out of a scrum in the crease, kicks it free to me. I draw two defensemen and send a slick backhand across the ice to Connor, who fires from the dot.
Back of the net.
Tie game. 1–1.
When the buzzer ends the first, we skate off covered in sweat and tension, breathing like we’ve been through a war.
The locker room is low-lit and humming with barely-contained energy. Nobody’s cracking jokes now. Logan’s icing his thigh. Darren paces the tile floor like a predator, gloves off, stick tapping a slow, steady beat.
“They’re gassed,” he growls. “You can feel it. They're burning themselves out. We grind ‘em down, keep the pressure. We’ve got more muscle. More heart.”
Connor nods, jaw tight. “Let’s bury ‘em in the second.”
And we do.
Second period, we take the ice with a different kind of fire. Not reckless. Not rushed. Just relentless.
Darren’s everywhere—breaking up passes, clearing the crease, barking orders like a general. He takes a stick to the ribs and doesn’t even flinch, just shoves the guy back with a low, surgical cross-check.
Halfway through, the Knights are scrambling.
With thirty seconds left, we win a faceoff in their zone. Logan draws the puck back, hard and clean, and it zips across the blue line to Darren.
Hedoesn’t hesitate.
He winds up, smooth and lethal, and fires.
The puck screams through the air and hits the back of the net like a cannon shot.
GOAL.
The eruption inside the arena shakes my bones.
Darren skates past the bench with his stick raised, fire in his eyes, and even through my helmet I hear him roar, “Let’s go!”
HellBlades up 2–1.
