25 - Michael
Michael
We were one win away from a series stranglehold, and the entire locker room held onto that knowledge like a vice.
I sat at my stall, methodically taping the knob of my stick. In the past, this ritual had felt like preparing for an execution. One man against a room full of kids who didn’t want him there. Now, the weight of it felt different. It felt like a tailwind.
"Hey, Pops, you need a magnifying glass for that tape job? I know the eyesight is the first thing to go once you hit thirty," Landon chirped from three stalls down. He was only halfway dressed, but clearly bored.
I didn't even look up, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Better to have old eyes that see the play than young ones that just stare at the scoreboard, kid. Keep skating into the trolley tracks and you won’t live long enough to need glasses."
A chorus of ohs and rhythmic stick-taps echoed off the lockers. The universal hockey language of acceptance. I wasn't the outsider taking a roster spot anymore. I was the veteran holding the line.
"He’s got you there, Cross," Hunter laughed, slapping Landon’s shoulder pad. "Looks like the old man’s still got some bite left."
The room went quiet for a second as Grayson limped in. He wasn't dressed for the game, his leg still braced, but the scowl that usually defined his face was replaced by something approaching respect.
He stopped in front of my stall with the usual air of authority he had before a game. "Ice looks fast tonight, Landry. Dallas is going to try to trap the neutral zone. Don't let them slow the pace. You keep pushing the tempo like you did in Game 3."
I nodded, meeting his eyes. There was no territorial posturing left. "We'll keep the seat warm for you, Captain. Just make sure you're ready for the Finals."
He gave a sharp, single nod and moved to talk to the goalies.
The door to Coach's office swung open, and he stepped out, his clipboard tucked under his arm. He waited for the final snaps of equipment to settle before he spoke.
"Listen up. Mason is wearing the letter tonight, and he’s your captain. But I want to be clear about something. This run we’re on? This identity we’ve found? It’s because we stopped playing like a bunch of individuals and started playing like a unit."
He looked directly at me, his eyes hard but appreciative.
"Landry, the way you’ve stepped into the gap on the ice, the experience you’re bringing to the shifts when the chaos starts, that’s the standard. You guys follow the lead out there. We play Surge hockey. We play heavy. We play smart."
As we filed out toward the tunnel, the familiar roar of the home crowd began to bleed through the walls.
I felt a surge of energy that had nothing to do with the pre-game espresso.
My body felt light, my mind was clear, and for the first time in my career, I wasn't playing for a contract or a stat line.
I was playing for the guys in this room. I was playing for the kid in the stands with the neon-green hat. And I was playing for the woman who, just three hours ago, had kissed me senseless in the parking lot and told me to bring home the win.
I hit the ice for warmups, the cool air hitting my face, and I knew Landon was wrong. My eyes weren't failing me. In fact, everything had never been clearer.
Frost Bank was a wall of noise, but the crowd didn't feel like a threat. It felt like home.
From the moment the puck dropped for Game 4, the air in the rink felt different.
Usually, my internal monologue is an airtight spreadsheet of defensive rotations and puck-possession percentages.
Tonight? The spreadsheet was gone. It had been replaced by a raw, buzzing energy that started in my chest and radiated all the way to the blades of my skates.
"Hey, Pops!" Landon yelled, pulling up alongside me during a whistle in the first period. He was grinning, his visor fogged with sweat. "You see the way their defenseman is cheating toward the boards every time you touch the puck? He’s terrified of you. Stop playing it safe. Take the lane."
In any other game, I would have lectured him on the risks of an odd-man rush. Tonight, I just winked. "Watch the master at work, kid."
The game was a track meet, and for once, the "old man" was leading the pack. We weren't just playing hockey; we were playing with Dallas. Every pass was a crisp, telepathic connection. Every hit was a clean, thunderous statement.
Midway through the second, I caught a breakout pass from Tucker. Normally, I’d look for the safe dump-in or wait for the trailers to set up the cycle. But I saw the Dallas defender flat-footed, his eyes wide as I accelerated through the neutral zone.
Take the lane.
I didn't dump it. I lowered my shoulder, protected the puck with a strength that felt brand new, and drove straight for the net.
I pulled a deke I hadn't used since my rookie year in the AHL—a quick forehand-to-backhand tuck that left the goalie sliding into the corner of the crease while I deposited the puck into the yawning top shelf.
The Surge bench went absolutely ballistic. I didn't just pump my fist; I let out a roar that I felt in my marrow. As I skated past our bench for the high-fives, Landon was leaning over the rail, screaming so loud his face was the color of a cherry.
"That’s what I’m talking about! Vintage Landry!"
The third period was pure, unadulterated joy.
We were up 4-1, and the Stars were crumbling under the weight of a team that had finally found its soul.
We started taking risks that would have made Coach pull his hair out a month ago.
Long, cross-ice stretch passes that landed perfectly on tape; no-look backhanders; even a shorthanded breakaway where Hunter and I played a game of "hot potato" with the puck all the way into the blue paint.
I found myself laughing. Actually laughing on the ice. I felt the wind on my face and the burn in my quads, and it didn't feel like a job. It felt like the reason I’d picked up a stick when I was five years old.
When the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard read 5-1. The Surge had taken a 3-1 lead in the series. We were one win away from the Stanley Cup Finals.
The walk back to the locker room was a gauntlet of helmet-slaps and jubilant shouting. The "old man" jokes were flying thick and fast, but they lacked any edge. I was one of them. I was the heartbeat of the room.
I was sitting at my stall, peeling off my sweat-soaked jersey, when the room started to quiet down. I looked up to see Grayson and Mason standing in front of me.
Mason, the official captain, had his arms crossed, a rare, genuine smile on his face. Grayson, still in his suit but looking more like a teammate than a ghost, stepped forward.
"Landry," Grayson said, his voice carrying through the room. "The doctors cleared me. I’m dressing for Game 5. I'm back in the lineup."
The room erupted in a quick cheer, but Grayson held up a hand, his eyes locked on mine.
"But I watched you out there tonight," he continued, and the room went dead silent. "I watched the way you handled the bench when we were under pressure in the first. I watched how you pushed Landon and Hunter to play bigger than they are. I’m coming back to the ice, Michael, but I’m not taking the room back from you. "
Mason nodded in agreement. "We talked to Coach. We’re a better team when you’re leading the huddle, Mike. We want you to keep the guidance. We want you to stay exactly where you are—in the middle of it."
I looked from Grayson to Mason, then around at the rest of the guys. They weren't looking at a veteran fill-in. They were looking at their leader.
"You're the captain, Grayson," I said softly.
"Yeah, I am," he said, reaching out to shake my hand. "But you're the one who saved this season. And we’re not losing that energy now. Not when we’re this close."
I took his hand, the grip firm and final. The outcast was gone. The bundle of overthinking anxiety was dead. I was Michael Landry, and I was exactly where I was meant to be.