Chapter 27 Liam
Chapter twenty-seven
Liam
She's here.
Naomi is in the VIP box, hands pressed against the glass, looking at us like... like she believes in us.
"She stayed," Felix breathes beside me, and his voice cracks on the words. "She fucking stayed."
"Stop staring and focus," Silas barks, but his voice has changed too. The defeated edge is gone, replaced by something sharp and hungry. "We've got fifteen minutes."
Fifteen minutes. We're down by three goals against elite players. But she's watching. Our omega is watching, and something deep in me refuses to lose in front of her.
"New plan," Silas says, pulling us into a huddle while the refs sort out some confusion at the scorer's table. "Felix, stop trying to deke through three guys. Quick passes only."
"Got it." Felix nods, and there's color back in his cheeks.
"Liam, I need you calling plays again. I can't see everything from center."
I force myself back into the present, out of the fog I've been drowning in since the last period. "Their 52 keeps focusing his defense on the puck side. We can exploit that."
"Good. Use it." Silas looks at both of us. "She's here. That has to mean something."
"Means we can't suck in front of her," Felix says with a ghost of his usual grin.
"Means we don't quit," I correct.
The ref blows his whistle. Face-off in their zone. Silas lines up against 52, who's been dominating him all period. But this time, Silas doesn't try to win it clean. He ties up 52's stick and kicks the puck back to me.
I have it on my stick and everything slows down. I'm entering the zone, where I can see the play developing before it happens. Silas driving toward the net. Felix finding an opening as the defenseman overcommits.
I fake the shot, drawing 52 toward me, then float a pass over his stick to Felix, who catches it and shoots in one motion.
5-3.
The arena explodes back to life.
"That's one," Silas says as we reset. "Need two more."
"Math genius over here," Felix chirps, but he's actually smiling now, his energy flickering back to life.
Brookfield responds hard. They're too good not to. Number 67 strips Vasquez at center ice, breaks in alone on Matthews. The shot is hard, but Matthews kicks out his pad and sends it wide. Ice flies as he slides across the crease.
"Thank you, Matty!" Felix yells, slapping our goalie's pads as he skates by.
We break out, actually stringing passes together for the first time since the second period.
My brain is working again, reading patterns, finding lanes.
I see Felix about to get crushed along the boards and yell "Drop!
" He leaves the puck for Silas, who's following right behind.
Silas carries it wide, drawing two defenders with him, then banks it off the boards to where he knows I'll be.
And I am.
I walk in from the right side, unmarked because they're all watching Silas and Felix. The shot is clean, low, hard. It beats the goalie's pad by an inch and nestles into the back of the net.
5-4.
Eight minutes left.
"Liam, you beautiful bastard!" Felix crashes into me so hard we both almost go down, and then Silas is there too, shaking his glove on my helmet.
"Keep pushing," Silas says, but he's looking at the VIP box as he says it. She's on her feet up there, pumping her fist in the air. Even from here, I can feel her smile.
Brookfield calls timeout. Their coach is animated on the bench, gesturing sharply at his players. He knows momentum has shifted. He knows we're not dead yet.
We gather at our bench, sucking down water and trying to catch our breath. Coach doesn't say much, just "Keep doing that." But Matthews leans over the boards toward us, helmet off, and says, "You guys smell different."
"What?" Felix blinks at him. "What do you mean we smell different?"
"I don't know, just... better. Stronger." Matthews frowns, searching for words. "Like you did in the first period."
I exchange a glance with Silas. Alpha scents shift with emotion, confidence, aggression, determination… I guess that what he means, which is good news, since everyone will play even harder if they smell our fighting spirit.
"Alright team." Coach claps his hands. "You've got eight minutes left. You need at least one more to tie, two to win outright. Make them count."
We know.
Brookfield comes out aggressive, trying to smother our momentum before it can build.
They cycle the puck in our zone, patient and precise, probing for weakness.
Number 52 has the puck near the blue line.
I read his eyes, see the shot coming before he takes it, and drop to block.
The puck hits my shin pad and bounces right to Felix's stick.
"Go!" I yell, still on my knees.
He does. And it's like he's flying. Only Silas keeps up, matching him stride for stride on the other side. They enter the zone together, Felix driving wide, Silas cutting hard to the net.
The defenseman has to choose. He picks Felix.
Wrong choice.
Felix slides the puck across to Silas, who's alone in front of an empty net. He doesn't miss.
5-5.
The building shakes. Actually physically shakes from the thousands of people losing their minds at once. Five minutes left.
"One more," Silas pants as we change lines. "One more and we win this thing."
But Brookfield isn't going to hand it to us. They lock it down, playing pure defense, chipping the puck out every time we get close. Time bleeds away in agonizing increments. Four minutes. Three and a half. Three.
"Pull Matthews," I tell Silas during a TV timeout. "Extra attacker. We need the numbers."
"With three minutes left?" Silas frowns. "That's early. If they score on the empty net—"
"They're playing not to lose. They'll sit on this tie and take their chances in overtime." I grab his jersey, make him look at me. "We need the extra man. Now."
Silas looks at Coach, who's been listening. Coach nods slowly.
Two and a half minutes left. Matthews skates to the bench. We're now six skaters against five plus their goalie. The math is simple, but the execution is chaos.
Brookfield clears the puck. We retrieve it, bring it back. They clear it again. We bring it back again. The seconds tick away—two minutes, one forty-five, one thirty.
Felix gets the puck at the point and looks for a shooting lane. Nothing. He passes to me on the right side. I slide it down low to Silas, who's battling for position in front of the net. He tries to jam it through a forest of legs and sticks. No luck. The puck squirts out toward center ice.
Vasquez saves it at the blue line, just barely keeping it in the zone. Back to Felix. One minute left.
The crowd is on its feet, screaming our names, but I can barely hear them over my own heartbeat thundering in my ears.
Felix shoots from the point. The goalie saves.
The rebound kicks out and Silas is on it, but so is 52, and they battle along the boards, sticks and skates and elbows, neither giving an inch.
The puck pops free. I grab it, look up. The net is a maze of bodies, everyone's in the way. No clean shot. Thirty seconds.
"Liam!" Felix calls from the slot.
I thread the pass through two defenders. Felix shoots with everything he's got. The entire building holds its breath…
But the shot is blocked by 67, who appears from nowhere. The puck bounces high, floating through the air in slow motion.
Fifteen seconds.
Silas tracks it, positions himself as it drops. He swings at it out of the air, but the puck glances off his stick and skitters toward the corner. Brennan dives, keeps it in, shovels it back toward the slot.
Ten seconds.
The puck lands on my stick. I look up, searching for a lane, but sticks block every angle. Then I see Silas cutting toward the net from the weak side, completely unmarked. Everyone's focused on me.
I don't hesitate. I send it across, a hard pass that threads through the chaos and lands perfectly on his tape.
Five seconds.
Silas catches it in stride. The goalie is down, scrambling to recover after positioning himself for my shot. There's maybe six inches of space between his shoulder and the crossbar. It's an impossible angle…
But Silas doesn't hesitate.
He drives his stick into the puck with everything he's got, and the entire arena holds its breath.