Chapter 19
Chapter nineteen
The Red Line - The center line dividing the rink into two halves.
Taz
I could hear the play-by-play announcers as we stood in the tunnel.
“If you’re just joining us tonight, this one has real playoff implications in the Western Conference division race.”
A graphic flashed across the jumbotron — standings columns shifting in real time.
“The Orcas enter the night with eighty-three points. Seattle sits at eighty-two, Dallas at eighty. And the Dragons right behind them at eighty, but without a game in hand. Fourteen games left in the regular season for Colorado.”
“And that’s why this matchup matters, Dave. Head-to-head against one of the teams you’re chasing? That’s how you control your own destiny.”
The phrase hung in the air.
Control your own destiny.
“Now let’s talk about Taranis Rees,” the play-by-play continued. “Since January first, he’s posted a .932 save percentage. Colorado’s riding him hard down the stretch.”
“They are,” the analyst agreed. “This is when elite goaltending separates contenders from hopefuls. And the Dragons have leaned heavily on number thirty-five.”
The puck dropped.
Seattle came out fast—faster than the tape had suggested, faster than our pre-game prep had accounted for.
Their top line cycled the puck through our zone with a patience that felt almost predatory, moving it low to high, board to board, never forcing anything, just probing for the opening they knew would come.
It came at 7:37.
Their center won a clean faceoff in our zone, drawing it back to the point.
The defenseman walked the blue line, faked a wrister, then slid it cross-ice to the left wing, who one-timed it low through traffic.
I saw it late—too late—the shot threading through three sets of legs before I could get my pad down.
The puck kissed the inside of the post and buried itself in the back of the net.
"And Seattle strikes first! Lindqvist from the left circle, assisted by Okafor and Tanaka. Seven thirty-seven into the first period, and the Orcas lead one-nothing."
"Beautiful passing sequence there, Dave. Colorado's defense got caught ball-watching, and Lindqvist made them pay. Rees had no chance on that one—the play was set perfectly."
The horn blared. The crowd roared. I tapped my posts, reset my stance, and exhaled through my teeth.
I ate it. All of it. Glove saves, blocker saves, saves with my chest, my shoulder, my goddamn helmet on one redirect that came in so hot I didn't have time to do anything except exist in its path. The cold hummed beneath my skin like a tuning fork—steady, controlled.
The period ended one-nothing. I'd stopped fourteen shots. My body felt fine. My mind felt like a wire stretched between two poles in a windstorm.
Cinder was in the medical room. I knew that the way I knew where the puck was even when I couldn't see it—some deep, animal awareness that had nothing to do with sight and everything to do with the bond thrumming beneath my ribs.
He was there, doing his job, monitoring players as they came off the ice, taking vitals with steady hands and a clinical focus that betrayed nothing of what we'd spent the last forty-eight hours surviving.
I wondered if his hands were shaking. I wondered if he was thinking about the cloud data.
The second period was worse. Not in terms of shots—Seattle actually pulled back slightly, content to protect their lead with a neutral-zone trap that turned the middle of the ice into a minefield—but in terms of the grinding, suffocating pressure of knowing that every minute on the clock was a minute closer to a loss we couldn't afford.
Cole tied it at 4:12 of the second. A rush up the left side, a pass with Max that split the Seattle defense, and then Cole's wrist shot—so precise it looked surgical—beat their goaltender before he'd finished moving.
The arena erupted. I banged my stick against the crossbar three times, hard, because the relief was physical.
"Armstrong ties it up! What a play from the Dragons' first line—Renaud with the feed, and Armstrong buries it! One-one!"
"That's the kind of goal that changes the momentum of a game, Dave. Armstrong's been electric down the stretch."
The momentum held. Keegan scored on the power play six minutes later—a one-timer from the right circle that damn near broke the sound barrier—and suddenly we were up two-one and the building felt like it might lift off its foundations.
Then Seattle answered.
It was my fault. I'd own that. Their right winger—Tanaka, quick as a snake and twice as patient—cycled behind my net with the kind of deliberate calm that should have warned me.
I tracked him, shifted to cover the short side, and for one fraction of a second lost sight of the weak-side forward crashing the crease.
Tanaka wrapped it around and found the space with a backhand pass so soft it barely whispered across the ice.
The forward redirected it past my blocker before I could reach it.
Two-two. The red light behind me felt like a brand.
"Tanaka finds Eriksson alone, and just like that, Seattle's tied it up! Rees got caught, and Eriksson made him pay."
"That's a veteran play from Tanaka. He held the puck just long enough to pull Rees out of position, and the pass was absolutely perfect. Rees will want that one back."
I did want it back. The cold spiked hard under my skin—frustration, self-recrimination, the dragon pressing forward like it could retroactively freeze the puck out of the air.
I slammed my stick against the post and reset.
The crowd had gone quiet, that particular hush that fell when momentum shifted and everyone in the building could feel the ice tilting beneath their feet.
Max skated past my crease on his way to the bench change. He tapped my pad with his stick—once, firm—and said nothing. He didn't need to. The message was clear: We've got you. Keep going.
The third period was war.
Seattle pushed. We pushed back. The hits came harder, the whistles less frequent, the kind of hockey that stripped away systems and strategy and left nothing but will.
I stopped everything they threw at me—seventeen shots in the third alone, including a breakaway from Lindqvist that I smothered with a desperation glove save that left me flat on my back staring at the arena lights.
"WHAT A SAVE BY REES! Lindqvist had him beat—had him absolutely dead to rights—and Rees somehow gets the glove on it! Unbelievable!"
"That is a season-saving stop, Dave. That's the kind of save that defines a goaltender's legacy."
I didn't feel legendary. I felt like a man holding a dam together with his bare hands while the river tried to kill him.
Then Ember happened.
With six minutes left, the kid—twenty years old, barely a full season under his belt, all raw speed and terrifying fearlessness—intercepted a lazy pass at Seattle's blue line.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't look for the safe play.
He drove straight at the net with the kind of reckless conviction that made coaches age in real time and fans lose their minds.
Seattle's defenseman stepped up to meet him. Ember dropped his shoulder and snapped a shot that rose like it had been launched from a cannon. It caught the goaltender's water bottle underneath the net and sent it spinning into the air.
Three-two.
"SHAW! EMBER SHAW SCORES! THE ROOKIE WITH THE GO-AHEAD GOAL, AND THIS BUILDING IS COMING UNGLUED!"
I couldn't hear the analyst's response over the noise.
The arena was shaking—actually shaking—the boards vibrating under my gloves as eighteen thousand people screamed themselves hoarse.
Ember slid into the glass on his knees, arms spread wide, his teammates burying him in a pile that looked more like a rugby scrum than a hockey celebration.
I stayed in my crease. Tapped my posts. Breathed. Six minutes was an eternity in a one-goal game, and Seattle wasn't going to roll over.
They didn't. They pulled their goalie with two minutes left, throwing six skaters at us in a desperate, suffocating press that pinned us in our own zone.
I saw shots from everywhere—the point, the half-wall, the slot, bodies crashing the crease and sticks hacking at rebounds.
I stopped three. Blocked two more with my chest. The cold sang through me, sharpening everything, and for those final minutes I existed in a state of pure, crystalline focus where nothing mattered except the next puck and the next save and the next breath.
Cole sealed it. An empty-netter from his own zone with forty-three seconds left—a long, arcing shot that slid the length of the ice and crossed the goal line with the quiet inevitability of a verdict.
Four-two.
"Armstrong with the empty-net goal, and THAT WILL DO IT! Colorado wins four-two, and folks, let me tell you what this means—"
"Dave, I'm looking at the updated standings right now, and—"
"The Dragons move into a Western Conference playoff spot!"
The second announcer's voice broke. Actually broke, like even professional composure couldn't survive the moment.
"For a franchise that was left for dead after the betting scandal—a team that was rebuilding from nothing, with a fanbase that had every reason to walk away—if the season ended tonight, Colorado would be going to the playoffs."
"Unbelievable. Un-be-lievable. Taranis Rees with thirty-three saves tonight. Cole Armstrong with a goal and an assist. Ember with the game-winner. And this building—listen to this crowd, Dave. Listen to them."
I could hear them. I could feel them—the noise rolling through the arena in waves, crashing against the glass, vibrating up through the ice and into my skates and my bones and the place where the dragon lived.
My teammates mobbed me before I could move, bodies slamming into mine, gloves pounding my helmet, voices screaming.
We went for a drink. All of us, and I didn’t give a shit that I obviously made Cinder sit next to me.