Chapter 33 Head Games #2
The second period starts with more intensity. We push back, generating chances, forcing Denver’s goalie to make saves. The crowd responds, the energy in the building shifting from anxious to hopeful. I feel it too, that current of possibility.
My minutes start to increase as Coach sees I’m holding up. Each shift, I push a little harder, test my limits a little more. The shoulder holds. The fear recedes.
Midway through the period, I spot an opportunity—a Denver defenseman telegraphing a cross-ice pass. I read it all the way, my body moving before my brain fully processes the risk. I intercept the pass and suddenly I’m free, nothing between me and the goalie but open ice.
Time slows again, but differently now. Not the tentative caution of my first shift, but the hyper-awareness of being in the zone. I can feel the Denver players closing in behind me, can sense their desperation. The crowd rises to its feet, a wall of noise urging me forward.
The goalie comes out to challenge, cutting down the angle. I fake a shot, then pull the puck to my backhand—a move I’ve practiced ten thousand times, a move that shouldn’t be possible with my injured shoulder. Pain flares, but it’s distant, unimportant. I flip the puck toward the top corner.
The goalie’s glove flashes. For a heartbeat, I think he’s got it. Then the arena erupts, and I know.
Goal.
My teammates mob me, their shouts of celebration drowning out the arena’s roar.
McDavid thumps my helmet, shouting something I can’t hear.
The bench empties, gloves tapping my back, my chest, my helmet.
For this one perfect moment, I’m not the fragile, damaged goods. I’m doing what I was born to do.
As I skate past the press area during the celebration, I allow myself one glance at Sydney. Her professional mask has slipped completely, a genuine smile lighting up her face. Our eyes lock for the briefest moment, and despite everything between us, I see it there—pride. Maybe something more.
The momentum shifts. We’re back in the game, pushing Denver harder, forcing them into mistakes. The third period begins with the score tied 2-2, the arena electric with possibility.
My shoulder is aching, a dull throb that intensifies with each shift. I ignore it. Coach eyes me suspiciously but doesn’t pull me. He knows what’s at stake—not just this game, but my confidence, my identity.
With five minutes left, we get a power play. Coach sends me out with the first unit—a vote of confidence that makes my chest tight with emotion. We set up in the offensive zone, passing the puck around the perimeter, looking for an opening.
I find myself with the puck at the half-wall, Denver’s penalty killers collapsing toward me.
Instead of forcing a shot, I spot our defenseman sneaking in from the point.
The passing lane is tight, threaded between two defenders.
It’s a high-risk play, the kind I wouldn’t have attempted in the first period.
But I’m not the same player I was one period ago.
I thread the pass through, the puck sliding perfectly onto Zimmerman’s stick. He one-times it past the goalie before anyone can react.
3-2 Boise.
The arena explodes. My teammates celebrate at center ice while I glide back to the bench, trying not to wince as pain radiates from my shoulder down my arm. Worth it. So fucking worth it.
The minutes tick down with excruciating slowness. Denver presses, desperate to tie the game. We bend but don’t break, clearing pucks, blocking shots, sacrificing bodies.
Coach sends me out for a defensive zone face-off. Another show of trust that means more than he could know.
“Just win the draw,” he says as I hop over the boards. “Nothing fancy.”
I nod, settling into the circle opposite Denver’s center. Not Jonah this time—he’s on the bench, watching with the intensity of someone who hates losing more than he loves winning. I know that feeling intimately.
The linesman drops the puck. I win it clean, pushing it back to our defenseman.
Relief floods through me as he clears it down the ice.
That’s when I see him coming—number 44 for Denver, all six-foot-four, two-hundred-twenty pounds of him, charging like a freight train with bad intentions—as always.
I brace for impact, turning to take the hit on my good side.
My skate catches a rut in the ice, turning me just enough that when 44 connects, it’s my bad shoulder that connects in the collision.
The arena spins as I crumple to the ice, my stick clattering away. Through the haze, I hear the whistle, the crowd’s gasp, the concerned shouts of my teammates.
“Kingston’s down,” the announcer’s voice says, the concern evident even through the PA system.
But I check my shoulder, and I’m pretty sure it’s fine. I think at the angle I hit, my back took most of the brute force. Either that, or somehow I’ve lost all feeling in it. I don’t know, but worse than that, my head’s not right. So much my vision blurs, and I can’t see.
Our trainer appears beside me, his face grim. “Can you move it?” he asks quietly.
I can but tell him I don’t know because I need a reason to get off this ice. With his help, I make it to my feet. The crowd applauds—that tentative, concerned applause reserved for injured players who can still stand. I raise my good arm in acknowledgment, forcing a smile I don’t feel.
My vision returns as I skate toward the tunnel, the game resuming behind me, and I catch sight of Sydney. The color has drained from her face, her hand covering her mouth. Our eyes meet across the distance, and in that moment, all the walls between us crumble. I see her fear, her concern. Her love.
The tunnel swallows me, the sounds of the game fading behind me. In the locker room, the medical staff waits, faces serious. I sit heavily on the bench, allowing them to help me remove my jersey, to probe the damaged shoulder with careful fingers.
I tell them it’s not bad, I’m fine, but I need a break. After an assessment, I’m cleared to head back to the ice.
But I can’t go back in. I need to get my head right.