13 - Michael
Michael
Kayla was leaning forward, her hands gripped tight on the railing, looking smaller than usual in a borrowed Surge jersey that drowned her frame.
Beside her, Gabe was a statue of pure, unadulterated focus.
He wasn't cheering yet, but analyzing. He watched the way the steel hit the ice, his eyes tracking the puck with a hunger that made my chest tighten. I recognized that look all too well.
"Focus, Romeo," Tucker chirped, spraying a wall of ice over my skates as he pulled up beside me. "The girl’s not going anywhere, but the Wild’s top line sure as hell is."
"She’s a friend, Tucker. Shut up and skate," I snapped, though the grin tugging at my mouth betrayed me.
"Sure. And I'm a figure skater," Cash added, gliding past with a wink. "Nice seats, by the way. I didn't know you had 'center-ice box' money on a veteran minimum."
The whistle blew, and the teasing died into the roar of twenty thousand fans. Game 5. The series was tied 2-2, and the atmosphere was a powder keg.
I started the game on the bench, my blood simmering as I watched the first line battle through a grueling opening five minutes.
The Wild were playing a heavy, physical game, trying to bully us off the puck.
Every time a hit landed near the Box 204 side of the ice, I felt a jolt of protective adrenaline.
I wanted to show Gabe what a clean check looked like.
I wanted Kayla to see that the old man she served water to was a god in this rink.
"Michael! Shawn! Get out there and tilt the ice!" Coach barked.
I hopped the boards, the transition seamless. The puck was loose in the neutral zone. I put my head down, my strides long and powerful, and reached the puck a split second before the Wild defenseman. I used my hips to seal him off, and kick-started a cycle that left the Minnesota bench scrambling.
"Shawn, back door!" I yelled, shielding the puck with my body as I drove toward the corner.
I felt the defender’s stick hacking at my ribs, but I didn't flinch. I was playing with a secondary engine tonight. I spun off the boards, spotted Shawn cutting toward the crease, and threaded a needle-thin pass through three sets of skates.
Clack. Shawn redirected it. Back of the net.
1-0, Surge.
The arena exploded. Gabe was on his feet, punching the air, his face lit up with an electric joy. Kayla was laughing, her hands pressed to her cheeks.
I skated back to the bench, my heart drumming a triumphant rhythm.
"Look at him," Landon teased as I sat down, dripping sweat and breathing hard. "He’s playing like he’s twenty-two again. What’s in the water at that bar, Seattle? I might need a gallon."
"It’s just hockey," I panted, closing my eyes for a second to center myself.
"Right. And I'm the Pope," he chuckled.
The second period was a masterclass in Surge dominance.
We weren't just winning, but dismantling them.
The Wild tried to get chippy, taking a run at Aiden near the mid-ice logo.
I didn't wait for the whistle. I stepped in, dropped my shoulder into the perpetrator, and reminded him that experience still had teeth.
During a TV timeout, I looked up again. Gabe was pointing at me, talking animatedly to Kayla, his hands moving to mimic a defensive stance. He was learning. He was seeing the game through the lens I’d given him.
With five minutes left in the second, we caught the Wild on a bad line change. Grayson carried the puck deep, drawing the goalie out of position. He flipped a saucer pass over a diving stick right onto my tape.
I didn't think. Just fired.
The puck whistled into the top shelf, a clean, violent strike that nearly tore the netting. 2-0.
I slid on one knee, my glove trailing on the ice, and for a fleeting second, I let myself look directly at Box 204. Kayla was screaming, her face radiant under the arena lights. That alone made the searing sting in my joints worth it.
The horn signaled the end of the second period, and we headed to the locker room with the momentum of a runaway freight train.
Coach was waiting, his face a mask of controlled intensity.
"That is Surge hockey!" he shouted, pacing the carpet. "Michael, that second goal was a clinic. Mason, great eyes on the transition. We’ve got them on the ropes, boys. They’re tired, they’re frustrated, and they’re looking for a way out. Don't give it to them. Finish the job."
I sat in my stall, stripping my gloves and feeling the heavy, satisfying ache of a job well done. The guys were still buzzing, the locker room loud with the sound of a team that knew they were the better side.
"Seriously though," Tucker said, leaning over from his stall while he re-taped his stick. "We’re going to the Faucet after this, right? We need to officially thank the woman for whatever she did to your skates tonight."
"She’s just a friend, Tucker," I repeated, though even to my own ears, the lie was starting to sound thin.
I felt on top of the world. The lights were bright, the score was in our favor, and the person I wanted to impress the most was exactly where I could see her. We were twenty minutes away from a 3-2 series lead, and I felt like I could skate for another three hours.
The third period was coming, and I was ready to bring the house down.
It didn’t start with a whistle but a war cry.
The Minnesota Wild came out of the tunnel like a team that had been told their season ended in twenty minutes unless they drew blood.
The brick wall Coach had talked about? It was currently being hammered by eighteen pairs of shoulders and a barrage of heavy, low shots.
"Keep your heads on a swivel!" Hunter bellowed from the crease, his voice cracking over the din. He was under siege. The Wild had abandoned the trap and switched to a full-throttle, desperate forecheck that left our defense scrambling.
I sat on the bench, my chest heaving, watching the first line get absolutely pulverized. Cash took a hit into the boards that sounded like a car crash, his helmet flying off as he crumpled. The refs let it go. This was playoff hockey. The rulebook had been tossed into the Zamboni.
"Michael! Landon! Get out there and kill the clock!" Coach screamed.
We hopped the boards and were immediately met with a blizzard of white jerseys.
The puck was a frenetic, bouncing thing.
Landon, ever the showman even in a street fight, caught a high bank-pass on his glove, dropped it to his skates, and executed a spinning 360-degree pivot that left two Wild defenders looking for their dignity.
"Showoff!" I yelled, though I was already moving to cover his lane.
Landon zipped the puck to me. I took a cross-check to the kidneys that felt like a lead pipe, but I stayed on my feet. I leaned into the defender, using my back to shield the puck, and ground my way toward the half-wall. This wasn't about highlight reels anymore. It was about survival.
"Mason! Low slot!" I yelled.
I fired a pass, but a Wild stick deflected it. The transition was a nightmare. They broke out three-on-two. Hunter made a sprawling, desperate save with the tip of his toe, but the rebound was sitting in the blue paint like an invitation to disaster.
I dove without thinking about the ice or the skates. I just launched my body into the crease. My chest hit the frozen surface, and I swept the puck away with my glove a millisecond before the Wild captain could bury it.
"Clear it!" Hunter yelled, his mask centimeters from mine.
The clock was a torture device, ticking down in agonizingly slow increments. Five minutes. Four. Three. The Wild pulled their goalie for the extra attacker, and the pressure became a physical weight. It was six-on-five, and we were trapped in our own zone.
"Landry, watch the point!" Grayson screamed, his face a mask of blood from a high-stick the refs had missed.
I saw the lane opening. The Wild defenseman was winding up for a slapshot that would have cleared a path through a mountain.
No time for second thoughts. I threw myself into the lane, my shins taking the full force of the blast. The pain was a white-hot flare that blinded me for a second, but the puck deflected into the neutral zone.
Landon was there. In typical Landon fashion, instead of just dumping it, he chased it down, performed a flamboyant toe-drag around the last defender, and sliding on his belly, poked the puck into the empty net from the blue line.
3-0, Surge.
The crowd ate it up, screaming so loud I thought the glass would shatter. We had done it. We’d taken the round. I looked up at Box 204. Kayla and Gabe were embracing, jumping up and down, their joy a brilliant contrast to the carnage on the ice.
The final horn blared, a long, triumphant scream of victory. We poured off the bench, gloves and sticks flying into the air. We were moving toward Hunter to celebrate the shutout, the adrenaline finally beginning to ebb into a sweet, aching relief.
But Minnesota wasn't done.
The handshake line hadn't even formed yet when a scrum broke out near the Wild’s bench. It was post-game frustration that turned ugly in an instant. A Wild forward, blinded by the loss, took a run at Grayson, who was coasting toward the center circle with his arms raised in victory.
"Grayson, look out!" I yelled, but I was too far away.
The hit was late. Disgustingly late. An assault.
The defender caught Grayson blindside, his shoulder connecting squarely with Grayson’s chin.
Grayson’s head snapped back, his helmet dislodging as he hit the ice with a sickening, limp finality.
He didn't slide. He didn't try to get up. He just went still.
The celebration died instantly. The arena went from a roar to a haunting, suffocating silence.
"Medic! Get the trainers out here!" Hunter screamed, dropping his blockers and skating toward his teammate.
I was one of the first to reach him. His eyes were rolled back, breathing ragged and shallow. Blood pooled on the white ice, a dark, terrifying stain under the bright arena lights.
The trainers rushed out, their orange bags sliding across the ice. The stretcher followed a minute later, the rhythmic clacking of the wheels sounding like a funeral march. The Surge players stood in a protective circle, our helmets off, the joy of the win completely evaporated.
As they lifted our captain onto the backboard, his neck immobilized, I looked up one last time at the box. Kayla was holding Gabe, her hand over the boy’s eyes, her own face pale with horror.
We had won the round. We were moving on. But as I watched the medics wheel our teammate off the ice, I realized the cost of the Cup had just gone up. And I didn't know if we had enough left in the tank to pay it.