Chapter 34
Miguel
Chicago’s arena throbbed like a living thing—forty thousand voices pounding the glass, chanting for blood. The air was sharp with cold and sweat and something metallic that lived in every rink. My mask pressed tight against my face, the hum of the crowd vibrating in my chest.
Game Five. Series tied 2–2.
One more win, and we’d break through to the conference finals. One more loss, and it was over.
I looked down the ice, caught sight of Drew behind the bench—arms folded, jaw set, the same calm that had steadied me all season. He nodded once when my eyes found him. That was enough.
The puck dropped.
First period. Chicago came out flying—fast, mean, hungry. I tracked every movement, every flicker of their team jersey cutting across my crease. My pads slammed shut on a rebound, glove flashing high to snatch a wrister headed top corner.
For a heartbeat, silence. Then a roar of booos.
“Nice stop, Maestro!” Tank barked, slapping my helmet with his glove.
We weathered the first ten minutes, and then our chance came. Justin stripped a defenseman at center ice, fed Devin streaking down the wing. One perfect deke.
Goal.
1–0, Grizzlies.
The bench exploded, sticks tapping against the boards. I punched the air with my blocker, the sound lost in the noise.
But Chicago didn’t crumble—they sharpened. They cycled the puck around our zone, wearing down our defense, and peppered me with shots that came like bullets. One hit the post. Another caught my shoulder so hard my arm went numb for a second.
When the horn finally blew for intermission, we were still ahead.
Second period. The Knights came back meaner.
Tank got called for tripping on a play that should’ve been a dive. Drew yelled something at the ref, low and sharp, but the whistle stood. Power play.
The puck never left our zone.
A screen. A deflection. 1–1.
The crowd went wild.
We reset. Tried to breathe.
Then Sam, already boiling, took a roughing penalty after getting cross-checked in front of the net. He shoved the guy back—too hard, too obvious.
“Rodriguez, hang tight!” Drew called as the penalty kill lined up.
I nodded once, adrenaline flooding my body.
Chicago’s top line moved the puck like magicians—passes clean and tape-to-tape, effortless, like they could play this game in their sleep. The shot came from the blue line through traffic. I saw it too late.
2–1, Chicago.
The horn blasted, shaking the boards. I hit the post once with my stick, the clang swallowed by the crowd.
One breath. Reset. Forget it or it’ll eat you alive.
When Sam came out of the box, he skated past me, guilt written all over his face. I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t.
But near the end of the period, we found life. Justin again—scrapping for a rebound, jamming it home through a pile of legs.
2–2.
We’d earned the tie.
Drew caught my eye as the horn blew, and his expression was pure fire. “One more,” he mouthed.
I nodded.
Third period. Every breath hurt. Every muscle screamed.
We’d traded rushes for fifteen straight minutes. No whistles. No breaks. The ice was a graveyard of sticks and bodies.
Tank blocked a slapshot with his ribs and barely made it to the bench. Devin limped after taking a knee-on-knee hit. Drew’s voice cut through it all—steady, commanding.
“Shift by shift. Stay calm, play smart!”
The clock wound down.
Four minutes.
Two.
Chicago fans were chanting OVERTIME like the outcome was guaranteed.
But hockey’s cruel like that. It doesn’t wait for what’s fair. It turns on one bad bounce, one unlucky skate.
With forty-five seconds left, there was a face-off in our zone. Their captain won it clean—no scramble, no chance to reset—pulled it back, drove wide, and threw a blind pass to the slot.
The puck clipped Tank’s skate—just a whisper of contact—and changed direction.
I dropped, glove flashing low to catch it—too late.
The red light burned behind me. The horn screamed.
3–2, Chicago.
Eight seconds left on the clock.
Technically, there was time for one more face-off.
But not for a miracle.
I stared down between my pads. The puck sat in the net, mocking me. My chest heaved, the sweat in my mask turning cold. For a second, I couldn’t hear anything — not the crowd, not the horn — just the blood pounding in my ears.
Then the noise crashed back. Fans on their feet. My teammates slumped on the ice, sticks hanging low. Across the rink, Chicago’s bench erupted.
I pressed a glove to the post, grounding myself. Drew’s silhouette stood behind the bench—arms folded, jaw tight, the stillness that always came when he was bleeding inside.
When the final horn blew, I stayed where I was—glove on the post, head bowed—as Chicago’s players spilled over the boards, helmets and gloves flying.
Then came the ritual no one skipped, win or lose.
The handshake line.
We met them at center ice, one by one—sweat-drenched, spent, too winded to say much more than good game. Their captain gripped my hand hard, eyes steady.
“Hell of a series,” he said.
“Yeah,” I managed, voice rough. “You earned it.”
When I reached their goalie, he nodded once. “You were a wall out there, man.”
“Didn’t hold long enough,” I said.
And that was it. Tradition done. Series over.
I waited until the last of my teammates disappeared down the tunnel. Then I turned, slow and heavy, and skated off.
Drew stood by the boards, eyes locked on mine. He didn’t smile, didn’t nod — just met my gaze with that same look he’d given me all season: steady, grounding, proud.
Head up. You did everything.
Locker room. Silence.
No sticks banging. No music. Just the hum of the vents and the sting of loss.
I peeled off my gloves, my chest heaving. The pads suddenly weighed a ton. Across the room, Drew was still in his suit, arms folded, head bowed.
He finally spoke, voice low.
“You gave everything you had out there. Every damn shift. Every bruise. That’s hockey. Sometimes you do everything right and it still breaks your heart. But don’t let this game define you—you showed who you are.”
No one answered.
He looked up then, and our eyes met. It was a fraction of a second, but it hit like a shot to the ribs—love, pride, grief, all packed into one impossible glance.
I looked away first.
We’d lost the game.
Maybe more than the game.
Outside, I could still hear Chicago celebrating. Inside, all I could think was how eight seconds could erase a season—and how badly I wanted to cross the room, close the space, and hold him.
But I couldn’t.