Page 105 of Pucking My Grumpy Accidental Husband
"They're sitting on the 1-4," I tell Martinez during a TV timeout. "We need to stretch them vertically."
"Agreed. Start activating your D-partners. Make them respect your gap control."
The next shift, I jump into the play early, timing my pinch perfectly as Cole carries the puck into their zone. Their winger has to respect my positioning, which creates a 2-on-1 down low that Cole almost converts into our first scoring chance.
"That's the read!" Martinez shouts from the bench. "Keep them honest!"
But Boston adjusts immediately—that's why they're in Game 7. Their defensemen start backing off my pinches, giving themselves more gap to work with. It becomes a chess match of positioning and timing, each team probing for systemic weaknesses.
With eight minutes left in the first, they get their breakthrough. A seemingly innocent faceoff in our zone turns dangerous when their center wins it back to the point. Their defenseman—Hampus Lindholm—loads up for a slap shot that's designed less to score than to create chaos in front of our net.
The puck deflects off three different bodies before Torres even sees it. By the time he reacts, Pastrnak is already celebrating what should have been the opening goal. But somehow—pure fucking reflexes—Torres gets his blocker on it, sending the rebound harmlessly into the corner.
"Holy shit, Torres!" I scream, tapping his pads as play continues. "What a save!"
"Saw it late," he pants. "Lucky bounce."
"Skill, not luck."
The momentum shift is palpable. Boston had their best chance, their perfect setup, and Torres stoned them with the kind of save that can define seasons. Now it's our turn to push back.
With five minutes left in the first period, we finally get our opening. Their defenseman—McAvoy—gets caught pinching too aggressively in our zone, and Kevin makes him pay with a perfect stretch pass that sends Cole on a 2-on-1 with Jamie.
But instead of the odd-man rush, McAvoy hooks Cole from behind—a veteran penalty that prevents a scoring chance but costs his team two minutes.
"Power play time!" the PA announcer bellows, and twenty thousand people lose their minds.
In the timeout huddle, Martinez keeps it simple: "PP1, run Umbrella. Kingston, you quarterback from the point. Look for the seam pass first, shot second. Movement creates opportunity."
Our power play unit takes the ice—me at the point, Jamie and Cole on the half-walls, Alexei in the bumper position, and Kevin as the net-front presence. It's the same formation we've run all season, but Game 7 pressure makes everything feel different.
The faceoff is crucial. Jamie needs to win it clean to establish possession and get our setup rolling. Boston's penalty kill is expecting our normal right-side entry, so we audible at the last second.
"Switch!" I bark, and Jamie slides the draw directly back to me instead.
The change of entry point catches their PK off-guard. Instead of the predictable cycle, I walk the blue line, pulling their penalty killers out of position. Cole finds the soft spot along the wall, and I feed him the puck with pace.
"Patience!" I hear in my head—Tessa's voice from our sessions about working through structured defenses.
Cole holds it, letting the penalty kill commit to pressuring him, then slides it back to me as I activate down the left side. Their forward has to respect my shooting lane, which opens up the cross-ice seam to Alexei in the high slot.
The pass is perfect—tape to tape, right in Alexei's wheelhouse. Their goalie—Swayman—is already sliding across to cover the angle, but Alexei doesn't shoot. Instead, he one-touches it down to Kevin, who's battling for position in the blue paint.
Kevin gets just enough of the puck to redirect it, but Swayman makes a desperate pad save. The rebound kicks out to Cole, who's crashing from the half-wall.
Top shelf. Bar down. Goal.
1-0, Chicago.
The eruption is seismic. Twenty thousand people on their feet, the building shaking with pure joy. Our celebration is controlled chaos—sticks raised, gloves touched, that perfect balance of excitement and composure that championship teams maintain.
As we skate back to the bench, I catch Tessa's eye in the observation box. She's jumping up and down, clipboard forgotten, looking like a woman watching her husband captain his team to glory on national television.
The second period is when Boston really shows their teeth. They're down 1-0 in Game 7, and desperate teams do desperate things. The hits get harder, the plays get dirtier, and their bench starts chirping about everything from our mothers to our contract negotiations.
"Hey Kingston!" their captain shouts during a line change. "How's it feel knowing you could've been wearing our jersey right now?"
I don't even look in his direction. "Ask me after we eliminate you."
