30 - Sage #2
Every second after that felt like inches.
Aiden’s hair plastered to his forehead, sweat dripping down his temples.
His skates carved grooves into the ice as he skated circles around defenders.
Avalanche weren’t making it easy. They were brutal, fast, unrelenting.
Hits into the boards made the glass shiver.
Fans were on their feet, screaming, slapping seats, waving banners, chanting names.
Then the buzzer. Second period was over and done with.
Surge huddled on the bench, panting, but alive.
Aiden leaned against the boards, helmet off, wiping sweat from his brow.
He caught my eye where I sat just behind the box.
My stomach lurched. He gave a little tilt of his head, a flicker of a grin.
I cheered, louder than anyone around me, my chest feeling like it would burst.
Mason, leaning heavily on the crutches, murmured again: “You’re the real deal, Aiden. Don’t forget that.”
Aiden nodded, gripping his stick, fist-clenched. The rest of the team rallied around him, shoulders slamming, sticks knocking. I could see the fire lighting up in his eyes. The Surge weren’t done. Not by a long shot.
And I wasn’t either. I was standing, screaming, hoarse and raw, caught in the electric tension of it all, hearts threading through every pass, hit, and shot. My hands shook with adrenaline, with worry, with awe.
Game 6 wasn’t over yet. Not by far.
And I knew, deep down, that every second of this night—the hits, the chaos, the roar of the crowd—was shaping up to be the kind of hockey I’d never forget.
Because Surge were about to fight for everything.
And Aiden was right there, center stage.
The third period opened like a cannon blast. Surge poured out of the tunnel, sticks high, gloves slapping, skates carving ice like knives.
The Avalanche weren’t backing down. They met every attack with brute force, body checks, and aggressive stick work.
Every time Aiden got near the puck, I flinched.
A slap shot whistled past his shoulder; he twisted mid-air, deflecting it just enough to keep it alive.
Coach’s voice cut through the crowd’s roar, rough and commanding: “Control it! Eyes up! Protect each other!”
I could hear Grayson calling out lines, pushing Aiden to move, to feed, to skate angles he’d barely had a moment to think about.
And somehow, in the chaos, Aiden responded.
He glided across the slot, intercepted a dump-in, and shot it at the net, forcing the goalie into a sprawling save.
Avalanche pounced immediately after; a heavy hit sent Tucker sliding across the ice, skidding into the boards.
I winced, unable to get used to the violence of it all.
Aiden was there in an instant, shoving himself into the fray, stick and body poised, never backing down.
The clock ticked down with brutal precision. Third period, full tilt, fans on the edge of their seats. Surge struck first. Grayson threaded a cross-ice pass to Landon, who buried it in the upper corner. The arena erupted. I jumped to my feet, screaming, arms aching from clapping. Surge led 2-1.
But Avalanche weren’t finished. They clawed back, grinding in the crease, forcing turnovers, driving rebounds that bounced dangerously close to the net.
Aiden skated into position, slashing the puck free from a defender, passing it to Grayson in a tight seam.
He shot… saved. Rebound. Landon shot… blocked.
Aiden swatted the puck back to Grayson again, sweat in his eyes. He was relentless, like a storm.
Then Avalanche tied it. Foul rebound from a corner play, sneaky wrist shot through traffic. Score 2-2. I sank back into my seat for a split second, chest tight. Every fan in the arena was on edge. The roar of the crowd became a white noise thunder, punctuated by the occasional whistle or shout.
Coach paced the bench, yelling orders, pointing, gesturing, never letting up.
And Aiden kept pushing, skating lines, feeding defenders, taking hits, giving hits, a full-body assault on both sides of the puck.
Every time he got leveled by an Avalanche player, my stomach flipped.
Every time he rose, the crowd roared, and I stood, screaming, hands trembling.
The first OT began, sudden-death. Surge and Avalanche skated out, knuckles white, legs trembling but bodies pushing past it.
The puck ricocheted off the boards; Aiden pinched it along the wall, elbowing a defender off balance, then threaded it to Grayson in the slot.
Grayson faked, drew another defender, and tapped it back to Aiden.
My hands flew to my face. Aiden flicked the puck… and the goalie smothered it.
Minutes stretched, each shift longer than the last. Sweat streamed down every player; every check drew a gasp from the crowd.
Avalanche skated hard, sending bodies into Surge, boards rattling, sticks snapping.
Surge held. Aiden was everywhere, blocking passes, chasing rebounds, his blade cutting the ice like fire.
Then the second OT. The energy in the arena was electric, desperate, raw. Fans were screaming themselves hoarse, waving towels, chanting names, stamping feet. Aiden skated to the center line, puck on his stick, eyes locked on Grayson.
Something happened between them I couldn’t read, and I wasn’t the only one suspended in confusion. Other spectators around me started muttering the moment their partnership started playing out differently.
Surge attack seemed to be drifting back, with Tucker and Cash pushing hard.
Landon, the leanest of the guys, took out two defenders without going down, and somehow managed to get up ice in time to snap the puck from Aiden’s perfect sweep.
It tapped between his skates, hitting the blades as he skated across the net, and while their goalie scratched his head over it, Landon snuck the puck from his skate and scooped it in a high arc overhead.
Grayson rushed from behind, winding up like a ball player, and slapped the puck out of the air and into the top corner of the net.
3-2. In the most spectacular finish.
The arena erupted. I screamed until my throat burned. Players swarmed Aiden, sticks clashing, gloves flying, jerseys tangled. He was buried under teammates, grinning through exhaustion, sweat, and pure adrenaline. I jumped up, cheering, tears streaming, clapping until my palms stung.
Aiden emerged from the pile, grinning like a man who’d conquered everything.
His eyes found me. My heart leapt, soaring above the ice, and I waved frantically.
He pumped his fist, spinning slightly, before turning back to his teammates.
They skated to the bench, still whooping, still hugging, still laughing through the exhaustion and triumph.
And then the Cup. The Stanley Cup. Silver and shining, gleaming under the arena lights like a promise fulfilled.
Surge hoisted it high, grins wide, laughter and shouting echoing across the ice.
Aiden held it aloft too, skates on the ice, sweat-streaked hair plastered, smile wide, teeth bared.
I screamed his name until my throat ached.
My heart was full. I’d watched him fight through doubt, fight through pressure, fight through everything, and now he had it. I knew I’d never forget this night. The noise, the adrenaline, the hits, the desperation, the triumph.
And the moment? It belonged to him. To all of us. To this wild, impossible, perfect game.