Chapter 26 - Theo
Theo
The boards rattled before my skates even found a groove.
I told myself to settle. Told my hands to calm down. The blocker in my system kept my shoulder quiet, almost polite, which only made everything else louder.
They pressed. Every touch contested. Every retrieval met with weight and teeth.
Our breakout stalled twice in a row because their forecheck arrived early and stayed late.
Hunter swallowed one shot clean and kicked the rebound to the corner where I tried to rim it out.
My blade caught the dasher instead of the puck.
It dribbled three feet and died. An Oiler pinched and fired.
Hunter got a pad on it, but the rebound bounced straight into traffic.
“Tie him up,” Tucker called.
I leaned into their center and felt him lean back harder. We lost the puck again. Edmonton reset high and cycled. Shot from the point. Blocked. Another from the circle that Hunter snagged easily with his glove and held. Whistle. Their bench howled like they’d scored anyway.
On the draw, Grayson nudged my hip. “Breathe. We’ve got this.”
I nodded, though my lungs felt ahead of my head. I won the tie-up, kicked it back, and Shawn chipped it out just far enough to earn us a line change. Edmonton dumped it right back in.
Shift after shift, they leaned. They didn’t need pretty.
They wanted grind and they were getting it.
I went to reverse behind the net and hesitated, a half beat where my mind ran somewhere it didn’t belong.
Their winger read it and clipped the puck off my stick.
I recovered, got body on him, and jammed the puck free.
Tucker cleared to center where it died again.
“Jesus, Bouchard,” Landon yelled from the bench. “Move it, move it, move it!”
I wanted to snap back. Instead, I skated on.
They got the first real chance off a mess. Three bodies went down in front of Hunter after a scramble at the top of the crease. I thought we’d swept it clear. I even turned up ice, exhaling relief.
But the puck slid out from under a skate and landed flat on an Oiler stick by some incredible twist of fate. He didn’t wind up, just snapped it short side while Hunter was still peering through legs.
Red light.
Our fans went quiet in a way that hurt worse than any noise they could’ve made. Oilers fans tucked in the corners lost their absolute minds.
Tucker slammed his stick once, ushering a string of choice curses that drove home the weight of that stupid goal. I stared at the netting, counting the knots.
“One goal,” Grayson said, calling us back to action. “Plenty of game left, guys. More than enough time.”
On the bench, Coach bellowed. “You two lost sight of it.”
“I had it,” I said.
“You thought you did,” Tucker replied with a shoulder-check as he skated by.
We answered with speed next shift. Grayson carried wide and drew two.
He dropped it back to me at the line. My shot sailed high, glassing the back wall and coming out hard.
Edmonton turned it into a two-on-one the other way.
Hunter bailed us out with a glove save that brought the arena back to life.
“That’s it,” Hunter yelled. “Stay in it, guys.”
Edmonton wasn’t about to let that happen. They finished every check. They were pretty talkative too. Their center chirped my ear about last year, about almosts and maybes.
“Get fucked, and play the game,” I spat, skating back to my line.
Midway through the first, I finally got a clean play. Intercepted a pass at our blue, shouldered through a stick, sent it up to Mason. He cut inside and ripped one that caught iron and bounced out. Best look we’d had, but it didn’t count.
The period crawled. The Oilers kept coming. We bent. Hunter held. When the horn finally sounded, 1–0 felt generous.
In the locker room, nobody was in their seats.
Tape hissed—self-applied, since our physio had some family emergency that meant she couldn’t make the game.
My heart was already in my gut, but sank lower when I watched the guys go through the motions of spritzing each other with cooling spray. Landon tried massaging Mason’s knee.
I swallowed the bile rising in my throat. It was my fault Reese wasn’t here, and again, my fault the team had to pay a price for something they didn’t buy.
Coach drew lines with his finger on the whiteboard and stabbed the middle. “They’re pushing you to make stupid mistakes. Stop giving them gifts.”
I kept my eyes on my gloves. Reese’s seat behind the bench stayed empty in my head. I tried to shove the thought aside, but it slid back. There would be no getting away from it. Not tonight. But I’d played through worse. So there was that.
Second period started worse, despite the pep talk.
They hemmed us in for nearly a minute straight. Puck moved east to west faster than our legs could answer. Shot from the circle. Pad save. Rebound. Stick lift. Another shot that rang off Hunter’s mask. I boxed out their forward and felt his grin against my shoulder.
“Still got it?” he asked.
I shoved him into the crease. The ref glared. No call.
When we finally cleared, I jumped into the rush, trying to will something good. I took a pass in stride, cut toward the middle, and lost it off my heel. Edmonton countered instantly. Tucker bailed me out with a stick-on-puck that saved a tap-in.
“Get your head right,” Tucker snapped as we skated past each other.
I tried. I really did. But every mistake stacked on the last. I fumbled a rim on the next shift. Missed a keep at the line by inches. Each miss tightened something I refused to name.
Late in the second, it burned us.
We were changing when I misread a chip. I stepped up instead of backing off.
Their winger slipped it past me and drove wide.
I chased, reached, but got nothing. He centered blind.
The puck hit skates, pinballed, and landed on their trailing defenseman’s stick.
Hunter slid across, but it was too much and the shot went under his arm.
2–0 to Edmonton Oilers.
Coach pointed at me and hooked a finger. Bench.
I slammed down beside him, heart banging, eyes hunting for a familiar ponytail that wasn’t there. Empty space behind the glass. Empty seat.
“You’re forcing it,” Coach said. “You’re not trusting your reads.”
“I’m good,” I huffed through clenched teeth.
“Good doesn’t mean you’re not being reckless out there.”
Grayson skated over, helmet tipped back. “Hey,” he said. “Think of it like the lake. No systems. No noise. Just us guys shooting the shit.”
I swallowed. Nodded. He squeezed my shoulder pad and pushed off.
Mason didn’t come back out. His knee had stiffened and he stayed at the end of the bench, jaw set. Landon hopped over the boards instead, bouncing on his toes like this was the moment he’d been salivating for.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I got it.”
Seconds left. Faceoff outside their zone.
Grayson won it clean back to Landon. Instead of dumping, the kid took off.
He cut across the blue with speed that turned heads.
An Oiler reached and missed. Another closed.
Landon slid the puck under a stick and kicked it back to Grayson, who’d followed like he knew it was coming.
Grayson didn’t hesitate. He snapped it low through a screen. The puck kissed the inside of the post and crossed.
Horn.
2–1.
The arena exploded with cheers. Landon screamed, and crashed his chest into Grayson’s. I stood at the blue line, heaving for air, and let the sound of celebration wash over me.
There was still a period to go, but that one goal felt like we’d already won the cup.
I skated to the bench and finally let myself look. Reese wasn’t there. The space stayed empty.
I told myself it didn’t matter.
The lie stuck in my throat anyway.
The third period opened with my lungs already burning.
We couldn’t buy a lane. Every entry died at their blue, sticks stacking like a wall that moved. Dump and chase turned into dump and lose. I threw one on from the boards that missed wide by a foot and came screaming back around to center, their defenseman already leaning into it.
They didn’t score from it, and that was the only mercy.
Hits landed with intent now. Not statements. Decisions. Tucker took one along the end boards that folded him awkwardly, his shoulder smashing glass hard enough to shake the stanchion. He popped back up and shoved the guy into the net for his trouble. The ref stared straight through it.
Next shift, Grayson got hauled down in the slot with a stick wrapped around his waist. No arm up. Our bench erupted. Coach leaned so far over the boards I thought he’d topple right over it.
“Open your eyes,” someone yelled.
Edmonton kept coming, using the blind ref to their advantage.
They dumped it deep and sent two in hard every time, one to hit, one to hunt.
I tied up their winger behind the net and felt a forearm ride up into my neck.
We both went down and slid into the corner where three more bodies piled on.
Skates tangled. Gloves shoved faces. The puck disappeared under shins and rage.
A whistle finally cut it. The ref pointed us to our feet and skated away without sending anyone anywhere.
Hunter banged his stick. “That’s a joke. How is he not calling anything?”
Well, the joke kept going.
Ten minutes left and our shot count for the period sat at zero. The crowd had gone from belief and hope to pleading. Every clearance earned applause like it was a goal. Every blocked shot felt like a win.
I blocked one off my thigh that lit my leg up bright and hot. Another off my shin guard that rattled my teeth. The blocker kept my shoulder quiet, but my arm felt like it belonged to someone else.
Another scrum broke out after their defenseman took a run at Landon along the wall. Landon popped up swinging. Gloves hit the ice. They traded two solid ones before the linesmen waded in and wrestled them apart.
Coincidentals. Of course.
On the kill that followed, the ref waved off a clear icing when their guy was a full stride behind our winger. The arena lost its mind. Booing rolled down from the upper bowl and settled like heavy snow.
“Skate,” Coach yelled. “Just skate.”
I did. I skated until my vision tunneled.
Then I saw her. On a turn over the blue line.
Reese stood behind the bench, hair pulled back, jaw set, hands already busy with tape and spray like she’d been here the whole time. She caught my eye without trying. No smile. No wave. Just there.
Something in me snapped back into place.
Next shift, I took the puck behind our net and didn’t hesitate.
One hard cut, shoulder into their forechecker, a slip pass up the wall to Tucker.
I jumped past him and took it back in stride at center.
We gained the zone clean. I drove wide and chipped it to the corner where Grayson arrived with speed and purpose.
He threw it to the slot. It bounced. Landon chopped at it. Their goalie kicked it aside.
Shot one.
Our bench came alive. Sticks banged. Yells layered over each other.
Edmonton answered with muscle. Their winger stepped into me at the blue and sent me down hard. I slid on my side and tasted copper. Reese’s eyes stayed on me until I got up.
I stayed up.
Five minutes left. Another missed call when Grayson got cross-checked in front. He spun around and barked at the ref, hands out. The ref skated past him and pointed to center.
“Bullshit,” Grayson said, clear as day.
We kept pushing, and it wasn’t pretty. Pucks to the net.
Bodies to the crease. I pinched hard on a rim and kept it in by inches, took a hit for it, and sent it down low anyway.
Landon dug it out and fed it back to the point.
I stepped into space and fired low. The rebound spilled. Grayson crashed and jammed.
Goal.
The place detonated. I don’t remember the sound so much as the pressure of it. Grayson slammed into the glass, mouth wide, eyes wild. Landon jumped him. Reese threw her head back and laughed, one hand already reaching for water bottles like this was work and play all at once.
2–2.
Overtime came with nothing but nerves.
They called a hook on Tucker that never touched hands. They waved off an icing for us when our guy was clearly gassed. The crowd turned hostile. Beer rained down from somewhere above.
Fights flared and got stamped out. Every whistle felt late. Every hit carried extra. I chased a loose puck into the corner and got drilled from behind, numbers full, head snapping forward. I got up and went straight at the guy. Gloves half off before the linesmen wedged between us.
“Enough,” one of them said, pushing me back.
Enough didn’t exist.
We traded chances. Hunter stood on his head. Their goalie answered. Time stretched and legs burned. My shoulder started to whisper, then complain. I ignored it and took another shift.
I jumped into the rush on a broken play and took a pass I shouldn’t have. Leaned into the shot when I knew better.
Something cracked. Or ripped. Or broke.
Pain exploded, white and blinding, blazing through my arm and down my side. My stick clattered away. I dropped to a knee and stayed there, breath punched out of me, shoulder screaming in a way no nerve blocker could touch.
Hands grabbed at me. Voices became muffled. Reese vaulted the boards and was there, face gone pale.
“No,” I said. “No, don’t.”
They got me up between them, weight sagging, skates barely finding ice. As they carried me into the tunnel, the horn sounded.
Long. Final.
Edmonton’s bench spilled over. Red lights flared. The building went dead quiet behind me.
I didn’t need to ask to know who’d scored the winning goal.
The series was level. And I was done.