Chapter 22 - Reese #2
Second period, the puck was moving fast enough to blur.
Landon subbed in, skating into the fray like a dog hunting a bone.
At one point, he almost took out one of our own guys, he was going so fast. So wild.
He got tangled up in a check farther down the ice, and snapped to his skates rubbing his thigh.
Quick hiss from the ice spray, a pat on the shoulder, and he was back at it.
Halfway through, and Colorado finally found the net, the puck slipping past Hunter’s glove with bullet speed. Colorado fans erupted, and Theo groaned, leaning down toward me. “That’s some bullshit.”
“Welcome to hockey,” I muttered, jotting a mental note for Hunter. He’d need a stretch after the whistle.
Surge kept the pressure, puck slicing along the boards, slapshots ringing off the post. Mason pushed forward, shot ricocheting, Colorado blocked again. Theo’s voice rose in mock horror. “You call that a shot?!”
Third period, still all tied. The crowd screamed, and the ice burned under skates. Theo kept motivating the guys from his seat, and I kept taking them in as needed. The puck skated end to end, each team giving as good as they got, but nobody really making any move closer to winning.
Colorado pressed on a counterattack, a shot blocked, and the rebound saved by Hunter, sliding across like a pendulum. Tucker swept it up to Landon, who confused everyone with one of his outlandish moves. The crowd ate it up.
He didn’t sink the puck though.
Face off in the defensive zone. The crowd didn’t like it any more than McAvoy did, and he made sure the ref heard him. Grayson skated up to the bench for a mini huddle, and then took the coach’s message back to the guys.
The draw was to Hunter’s left. Landon stepped in with his jaw set, stick flat.
The tension in the arena pulled so tight it felt like I could’ve choked.
The puck hit the ice and he snapped it back clean, stole a half step, and took it himself instead of sliding it to Grayson or Mason, both yelling for it.
“What the fuck is he doing?” McAvoy whirled round to me as if I’d have the answer. Anyone with half a brain could tell that Landon was hoping he’d be the next glory boy.
Landon cut up ice with lightning speed. Legs pumping. Colorado’s first pair reached and missed, snow kicked up behind him as he split the gap. The crowd rose with him, the noise chasing his stride.
From the row behind me, Theo’s voice. “He’s gonna overcook it. No control. No goal. No goal. He’s not scoring like that.”
Landon crossed the red and loaded up, all arm and ambition.
The shot went big. Too big. His edge caught, the follow-through dragged him sideways, and he went down hard, cushioned by nothing but the collective groan from the crowd.
His stick cartwheeled toward the circle, and the puck skittered free.
Colorado turned it back the other way, jerseys flooding the lane while Landon slid to a stop on his hip. I was already standing, eyes tracking the counter, heart stuck in my throat as the play reversed in a blink.
“Told you.”
“Yeah, I heard,” I said over my shoulder, afraid to take my eyes off the play for even a second. “Sounded like a prayer instead of a prediction.”
He snorted, and whatever came next got lost in the pandemonium that broke out. Because there were seconds left on the clock, and Hunter was staring down the barrel.
He flinched under a sudden wraparound attempt, feet slipping, blade catching ice wrong.
Then, in some kind of freak scramble, he fell.
The Surge goalie—currently number two in the league with least goals conceded—fell down.
Everyone held their breath, rapt as Hunter scrambled to find his footing and failed.
In one final last ditch attempt, he flung himself across the net, stick flailing.
The play went from slow motion to silent movie as the puck slipped into the net.
The crowd went from frenzied roar to stunned silence for a beat before Colorado fans erupted.
My first thought was Theo, but when I turned around, I didn’t see what I’d expected to see.
He wasn’t moving, wasn’t yelling, he’d even stopped his commentary.
He just… sat there. Eyes on the ice, on Hunter.
“You okay?”
He didn’t blink at first, just kept watching the puck bounce into the corner. Then he finally turned his head, caught my gaze, and gave the tiniest shrug, like it was nothing. “Guess we’re on to game seven,” he said, and stood up to leave.
“Yeah, game seven.”
There wasn’t much time to dwell on it, because I knew I’d have my hands full post-game. I packed my kit bag and hurried back to the locker room in the swarm of fuming Surge players. They were all feeling it, but not one of them aimed any of it at Hunter.
“It could’ve happened to anyone,” I said as we hit the tunnel. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
He grunted something, and sped up without looking at me.
The hallway felt narrower than usual, echoing with the leftover chatter of fans. My steps were quick, but my mind was stuck on the ice—the way Hunter had gone down, sliding out of control, limbs flailing. Like someone who’d never played the game before.
I kept moving, letting the others talk around me, pretending I wasn’t turning the game over in my head. But that feeling wouldn’t leave.