Chapter 30
GARRETT
The seconds bleed off the clock in the third period. The Kraken are pushing hard, pressing the advantage, peppering him with shots from all angles, trying to catch him out of position.
He doesn’t give them an inch.
The puck hits his blocker—off the pads—kicked wide again. His vision narrows to the puck and the sticks that chase it. No noise, no nerves, just angles and timing and instinct.
Another blast from the point.
He tracks it, drops to the ice, and smothers it.
The horn finally blows, a long, droning exhale across the ice.
Garrett’s stopped every shot he’s faced, and now the game is going to overtime.
He skates slowly toward the bench as the team huddles around the coach.
The adrenaline that flooded him during the dying seconds of regulation settles beneath his skin, not gone, just shifting—coiled and ready.
Coach Stephenson leans over as he approaches. Garrett has only played for him in training camp, but now he offers Garrett a single, measured nod.
“You’re doing fine, son. Keep reading the puck. If they stretch you, don’t chase. Let the boys cycle back. Stay sharp. They’ll look to isolate.”
Garrett nods once, absorbs it, says nothing. He doesn’t need a speech.
He grabs the water bottle offered to him by a trainer, takes a swig, swishes, spits. His legs burn. His chest rises and falls, controlled, steady.
He doesn’t look into the crowd. Doesn’t scan the glass.
But he knows she’s out there.
Garrett senses her—like the flicker of a pilot light in the back of his mind. He pictures her leaning forward in her seat, probably muttering curses under her breath like she’s been watching hockey her whole life, even though a few months ago she thought icing was only for cinnamon buns.
He imagines her delicate hands in mittens, her cheeks pink from the cold of the rink. He bets she’s bouncing her leg, biting her strawberry lips. He bets she looks perfect.
She’s a spark, quiet and glowing in the corner of his mind. A warmth he’s saving for later. A softness he doesn’t get to touch until the job is done.
The whistle blows.
Overtime.
Three-on-three means speed and space and no second chances. The Kraken win the draw and swing into motion immediately, stretching the ice wide, testing for seams.
The Mavericks hold, cautious, but aggressive enough to push the puck loose.
Turnover.
Suddenly it’s an odd-man rush the other way—two Seattle players break clean down the wing with a Maverick defenseman trailing a step behind.
Garrett doesn’t panic. He reads the passing lane, tracks the shooter’s hips, feels the seconds stretching out like taffy.
They close in fast, then the pass comes, sharp across the slot to the backdoor man, who drops his blade and fires off a one-timer.
Garrett explodes across the crease, body low, glove up.
Thwack.
It hits him square in the chest, a brutal impact he barely feels, and drops dead in the paint.
He smothers it immediately, glove and pad trapping the puck like a steel door slamming shut.
The whistle cuts through the arena. A surge of noise rushes up all around him.
Still tied.
He’s not done yet.