Page 73 of Game Misconduct
The puck drops and The Pit explodes, noise rolling like thunder down my spine. I lock in, knees bent, vision narrowed.
This isn’t preseason anymore. This counts.
The first rush comes fast—too fast. Their winger cuts in off the left, snapping a shot high glove.
My shoulder screams when I reach, but the puck sticks to my webbing anyway. I freeze it, drop it, then clear it out with a smack of my stick.
The crowd roars like it’s bloodsport.
Riley’s next shift is a circus act—spinning off checks, dangling through traffic like the puck’s magnetized to him.
He feeds Finn on the wing, and of course Finn turns it into theater, blowing a kiss at the Outlaws’ bench before ripping one top shelf.
The place goes feral.
Logan takes the next face off, calm as stone, wins it clean, and it’s surgical—two passes, Eli grinding down the wall, Beau backing him up, and the puck’s in the net again.
Efficient. Ruthless.
I feel it in my bones—the shift, the chemistry. The storm that was missing in preseason?
It’s here now.
But it’s not all clean.
Their captain gets loose on a breakaway, and it’s me and him, one-on-one. He fakes glove, goes blocker side.
My shoulder stabs as I push across, but I seal it off, puck hitting pad solidly, and the rebound dies under me.
He crashes the crease, stick jabbing, but I shove back, glove in his chest, my teeth bared behind the mask.
The ref whistles before I decide whether to drop him where he stands.
The roar that goes up isn’t just relief—it’s faith. The kind I thought I’d burned out years ago.
Shift after shift, the Vipers roll, even as the Outlaws get in some hard body checks and generally play just this side of dirty.
Cal stumbles a couple of times, nerves written all over his face, but he hustles back, stick down, eyes sharp.
I bark a cue—“Right side, Reid!”—and he actually hears it, resets, and clears a puck out of danger.
My chest tightens with something I don’t want to name. He’s raw as hell, but he’s listening. That’s more than most rookies ever give.
The goals pile up. Riley feeds Finn for another one, then Logan buries a rebound that ricochets off my pads and turns defense into instant offense.
Beau plays caretaker again, dragging Cal out of a scrum before he gets flattened. Eli throws a hit that rattles glass so hard I feel it buzz through my crease.
Jace? He’s the spine. A steady heartbeat that makes everything else possible.
And me—I’m fire in the net, even with the shoulder grinding like a bad gear. Every shot that hits my pads feeds the blaze.
But every save is a message: I’m not done. Not even close.
When the horn finally sounds, it’s 5–1, Vipers.
Decisive. Dominant. Not a scrap of doubt about it.
The crowd is on its feet, the kind of standing ovation that shakes walls. I pull my mask off slow, sweat dripping, lungs burning.
