41. Jaymie
Jaymie
Every seat in the building is filled, every inch of plexiglass pressed with faces, painted cheeks, fists clenched. The noise is a wall—deafening, relentless, thrumming through my chest like a war drum. I skate onto the ice and it hits me in the sternu m.
The HellBlades crest on my jersey feels heavier tonight, like it knows what’s on the line.
I tap my stick once against the boards as I skate by the bench. Logan answers with a tap of his own. Connor adjusts his helmet beside me, mouth tight with focus. Darren leans forward behind us on the D-line, jaw set, expression carved out of stone.
We’ve been through blood and bruises to get here.
Now we finish it.
The puck drops.
The first period is a knife fight. The Knights come out flying—tight formations, fast cycles, every line change like clockwork. They’re desperate. But so are we.
Skates carve into the ice like blades through butter.
Stick taps echo like gunfire. I chase the puck down the boards, shoulder-checking a defenseman hard enough to make him stumble.
Connor flies in behind me, scooping up the rebound and launching it into the slot—but their goalie snatches it midair like a damn magician.
We regroup. Shift change. Then again. We’re pressing, cycling, pushing them into corners, but they’re fast—quicker on the breakouts than I’ve seen all season.
Ten minutes in, they score.
Silence isn’t an option—the arena roars, half agony, half anger—but it feels like a blow to the chest. On the bench, Logan mutters a curse and slams his glove into his thigh.
But we answer five minutes later.
Log an pulls the puck out of a scrum in the crease, kicks it free to me. I draw two defensemen and send a slick backhand across the ice to Connor, who fires from the dot.
Back of the net.
Tie game. 1–1.
When the buzzer ends the first, we skate off covered in sweat and tension, breathing like we’ve been through a war.
The locker room is low-lit and humming with barely-contained energy. Nobody’s cracking jokes now. Logan’s icing his thigh. Darren paces the tile floor like a predator, gloves off, stick tapping a slow, steady beat.
“They’re gassed,” he growls. “You can feel it. They're burning themselves out. We grind ‘em down, keep the pressure. We’ve got more muscle. More heart.”
Connor nods, jaw tight. “Let’s bury ‘em in the second.”
And we do.
Second period, we take the ice with a different kind of fire. Not reckless. Not rushed. Just relentless.
Darren’s everywhere—breaking up passes, clearing the crease, barking orders like a general. He takes a stick to the ribs and doesn’t even flinch, just shoves the guy back with a low, surgical cross-check.
Halfway through, the Knights are scrambling.
With thirty seconds left, we win a faceoff in their zone. Logan draws the puck back, hard and clean, and it zips across the blue line to Darren.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He winds up, smooth and lethal, and fires.
The puck screams through the air and hits the back of the net like a cannon shot.
GOAL.
The eruption inside the arena shakes my bones.
Darren skates past the bench with his stick raised, fire in his eyes, and even through my helmet I hear him roar, “ Let’s go! ”
HellBlades up 2–1.
Third period is hell.
The Knights come out like cornered animals. They score in the first five minutes—2–2. The bench is tense. Every inch of ice is a battlefield.
Then we draw a power play and Connor buries a rebound off a Logan shot—3–2.
We almost breathe.
Until they tie it again with three minutes left. A sloppy bounce, a redirect that skips off a skate and past our goalie.
3–3.
I’m burning.
My legs scream. My lungs feel like they’ve been wrung out. I suck air through my mouthguard and wait. Listen.
Coach calls our line.
“One last push. You know what to do.”
My heart kicks like a drum. I glance down the bench at Connor, then Logan.
We nod.
One minute left.
We hit the ice like we were built for this moment. The crowd surges as we storm their zone. Logan dumps the puck behind the net and Connor digs in deep, shoulder to shoulder with two Knights.
He wins.
He kicks it free with one skate, spins, and slides it through the traffic.
Right to me.
Left circle. Open lane.
Fifteen seconds.
I don’t think.
I fire. The puck leaves my stick like it knows where to go. It cuts through the chaos and the noise and the weight of every second that led to this one—and buries itself top shelf, glove side.
GOAL.
The world explodes. My knees hit the ice. I throw my arms in the air and scream.
The bench empties.
Logan tackles me first, screaming, “You did it! Prescott, you sick bastard!” Then Connor. Then Darren, slamming into us, yelling incoherently. Everyone’s crying, shouting, shaking each other.
Final buzzer.
HellBlades 4. Knights 3.
Sta nley. Cup. Champions.
My gloves are gone. My helmet’s off. I stare up at the lights as they swing and shimmer through the tears in my eyes. The crowd is on its feet. Confetti begins to fall. It sticks to my sweat-slick hair, my jersey, my lashes.
Somewhere in the chaos, someone hands me and logan the Cup.
It’s heavier than I thought.
And it’s mine.
Ours.