Chapter 29 - Landon
Landon
The roar hit before I even set skates to ice, a living wall of sound vibrating through the boards and into my chest. Game Seven. Surge versus Hurricanes. But more than that—I was in the team.
Chants of my name raised the roof. Posters of my face, banners, jerseys with my number…
Every conversation, every headline, every radio blare since Monday had led to this moment. My throat tightened with anticipation, and I shoved it down because there wasn’t a second for doubt. Or ego.
This wasn’t about me.
“Focus up, rookie,” Mason said, shoving a palm into my shoulder as we lined up. His grin didn’t hide the tension. “We’ve got twenty minutes to make history in this period alone.”
“Twenty minutes, one battle,” I muttered, adjusting my gloves.
The puck dropped, and the arena erupted.
Hurricanes came at us with a fury I hadn’t fully expected.
Quick passes, tight formations, bodies colliding with a rhythm meant to intimidate.
They scored first with a puck off a backhand from their captain that zipped past Hunter and the post to bounce in.
Surge down 0-1 before we could even breathe.
“Shake it off!” Grayson yelled as we regrouped near our net. “They’re strong, but we’ve beaten them three times already. Remember that.”
I skated down the boards, eyeing openings, scanning for any seam in their defense. Mason darted between two Hurricanes players, stick outstretched. I timed a pass through a narrow window between a defenseman’s legs. Mason caught it mid-stride, spun, shot low… but the goalie smothered it.
“Damn it!” Mason cursed, smacking his glove against the boards.
I pivoted, staying low, feeling the ice under my skates, the hum of adrenaline coursing through muscle and sinew.
Carolina pressed again. I fed a cross-ice pass to Grayson, who pivoted without missing a beat, wrist shot—saved—but the rebound fell to Mason.
He chipped it back to me, and in a flick that felt like instinct, I caught it on my forehand, stepped around a charging forward, and snapped it past the goalie’s right pad.
Surge 1, Hurricanes 1. Tie game.
“Keep it up, rookie!” Grayson barked, gloves high.
“Eyes on the net,” I called out, skating for position.
Hurricanes didn’t let up, body checks rattling ribs, sticks scraping ice.
A forward lunged at me behind the net. I spun, stick in the air, passed to Mason, and we executed a give-and-go that left me facing the net again.
I pulled the puck back at the last possible second, flicked it across the crease to Grayson, and he one-timed it in. Surge 2, Hurricanes 1.
“Beautiful feed!” he shouted, fist pumping.
“Move!” I yelled, waving Tucker and Cash Money in. “They’re on the counter!”
The first intermission passed in a blur. The locker room smelled of sweat, stale jerseys, and the cold metal of our gear. Coach paced, his face a tight line.
“First period’s done. Lead’s slim. They’re going to push harder. Don’t give them an inch. Keep your heads, cover your lanes, communicate. You know what you can do.”
Mason leaned toward me, wiping his mouth with the hem of his jersey. “You’re taking chances out there like you’re already ahead. Don’t get cute.”
“I’ve got Nicole watching,” I said, half in jest, but she was in my mind. Every glide, every fake, every pass mattered more than the score. She had been my constant through the season, my tether. I couldn’t let her down.
“Then play smart,” Mason said, voice quieter now. “You’re on fire, but we need control.”
Second period, puck dropped, and Hurricanes hit back.
The forward line barreled down the middle, puck on the stick, and I charged in.
A quick jab of my stick sent it sideways to Mason, who turned and threw it across ice to Grayson.
He slipped past a defenseman, wrist shot, blocked.
I corralled the rebound and found him again, threading a no-look pass that left him in space. Goal. Surge 3, Hurricanes 1.
“Way to thread it!”
We regrouped near our net, sticks resting against the boards, sweat dripping, breaths sharp but measured. Carolina’s aggression didn’t waver. They scored again midway through the period, a slap shot from the point that deflected off Mason’s skate and past Hunter. Surge 3, Hurricanes 2.
“Focus, boys. We’ve got time,” I said, grabbing a water bottle, swallowing hard, trying to keep the nerves from spilling into panic.
Tucker grinned at me, gloves wet with ice and sweat. “You’re dialed in tonight, Cross. Keep those passes going.”
I returned a half-smile, circling the crease, already scanning for the next opening.
Hurricanes were relentless. They threw everything at us: hits, cross-checks, aggressive forechecking.
I spun behind the net, dodged a charging forward, and slid a perfect pass to Grayson in the slot.
He faked left, shot right, saved. But the rebound fell to Mason, and he put it in the net. Surge 4, Hurricanes 2.
Coach barked orders as the period wound down. “Good work, boys, but don’t ease up. Stay sharp for the final twenty minutes. They’ll throw everything at you.”
“Don’t ease up,” I echoed under my breath, thinking of Nicole, her face in the crowd, cheering like it was her own heart on the line. Every shift, every move, every assist was for her, too.
The horn sounded, period over. We skated toward the locker room, muscles burning, our nerves raw. Grayson clapped me on the shoulder. “That assist—classic Landon Cross. You’re back.”
“Back’s just a word,” I said, shaking off my helmet. “Let’s finish this.”
Coach’s voice cut through the low murmur of the room. “Two periods down. Lead’s in your favor, but they’re not done. Strategy holds. Communicate. Support each other.”
Mason leaned close. “We’ve been here before, and we’ve won it. Same story.”
“Same story,” I said, exhaling as much of my anxiety as I could. “For Nicole, for this team, for every goddamn second we’ve fought to get here.”
“For twenty years of fighting the good fight.” Tucker lifted his stick in the air, and all the guys followed suit.
We were silent for a beat, the weight of the moment settling in. The ice wasn’t forgiving. Neither were the Hurricanes. But we had the heart, the fire, the drive, and each other. And that, I realized, was the thing no opposing line could touch.
I thought I knew loud. I had played in barns where the boards rattled and in buildings where the noise pressed against your helmet until your jaw ached.
This was something else. The third period opened with the Hurricanes throwing bodies at every inch of ice, and the sound followed each hit, each scrape of steel, each roar when a pass got broken up.
My legs burned, not the tired kind that comes from conditioning, but the deep ache that means you have been asking them for more than they want to give.
I circled back into our zone as Carolina dumped it behind the net.
Grayson peeled off with his man, Mason stepped up at the blue, and I took the middle, stick low, eyes scanning.
I caught a glimpse of Nicole between plays, third row, center ice, her hands clasped tight in front of her mouth.
She saw me see her and nodded once. That was enough.
Carolina struck first. A shot from the point made it through traffic and clipped the inside of the post. Their bench exploded.
Our crowd went quiet in a way that felt physical, a pressure against my ears.
One goal down in Game 7 third period. Nobody said anything on the ice.
We lined up again and went back to work.
We answered with possession. Long shifts.
Cycling below the dots. Mason took a cross-check that sent him down and still shoveled the puck to the wall before the whistle came.
On the ensuing power play, we moved it fast, not pretty, just efficient.
Grayson fed me high. I faked the slap shot and slid it down to Hunter on the half wall.
His pass threaded back through the seam, and Mason buried it from the crease.
Tie game. The building came back to life in a rush that rattled my ribs.
The Hurricanes pushed harder after that.
A scrum broke out behind our net when one of their forwards tried to jam it through the pads after the whistle.
Gloves hit the ice. Grayson went with their winger, both of them swinging and grappling until the linesmen wedged themselves in.
The penalties offset. The message did not. Nobody was backing down.
Time bled off the clock in hard-earned seconds.
Our goalie stood on his head. I blocked a shot with my shin and skated it off, refusing to give Carolina any hint that it hurt.
With two minutes left, they rang one off the crossbar.
The sound cut through everything. We held. The horn sounded. Tie game. Overtime.
During the break, I sat on the bench with my head tipped back, sweat dripping off my chin onto the ice. Coach leaned in, eyes steady. “Short shifts. Smart changes. They want you tired.”
“I’m good,” I told him. It was not bravado. It was truth.
Overtime was survival. The first one came and went with chances at both ends.
A breakaway for them that our goalie turned aside with a pad save that sent the puck skittering wide.
A two-on-one for us that died when the pass hopped over my blade.
Every shift felt like the last one you had in you. Every whistle felt like a gift.
When the horn ended the first overtime, the crowd stayed on its feet. Nobody sat. In the tunnel, I caught Nicole’s eye again. She mouthed my name. No sound reached me, but I knew what she was saying. Come back.
Second overtime began with Carolina pressing.
They hemmed us in for a long stretch. I won a draw in our zone and chipped it out off the glass, buying us a chance.
On the next shift, Mason dug a puck out of the corner and threw it toward the slot.
It deflected off a skate and nearly found daylight.
Their goalie sprawled. We circled back, resetting.
My legs felt hollow. My hands felt heavy. I focused on small things. Blade on ice. Breath in, breath out. Read the play. Trust the work.
The opening came when you least expect it.
A turnover at their blue line. Grayson poked it free and sent it ahead with just enough space.
I took it in stride, cut toward the middle as a defender stepped up.
The puck hopped. I let it rise, tapped it forward with my skate, then lifted it again with the toe of my stick to clear the reaching blade.
Another defender closed. I kicked the puck back to my stick and slid between them, arms out, balance screaming but holding.
The goalie came out. I didn’t rush. I carried it across my body, lifted it once more to keep it away from the pad, then snapped my wrists and sent it under the bar before I could think about anything else.
The red light came on.
For a heartbeat, there was nothing. Then the building broke open. My teammates crashed into me, knocking me off my skates, piling on until I could barely breathe. I laughed into someone’s shoulder, sound torn out of me. The horn blared. Gloves flew. Sticks clattered.
I found Nicole in the stands as I got to my feet. She was crying and laughing at the same time, hands in the air, mouth open in a shout that finally reached me. I pointed at her without thinking. “I love you!”
She cupped her hand over her ear to signal she hadn’t heard me.
“I fucking love you, Nicole Gordon!”
Her hands flew to her heart. “I love you too!”
The handshake line blurred. Hurricanes skated past with heads high. They had pushed us to the edge and beyond. Respect lived there. When we lifted the Cup, the weight of it surprised me. Cold metal. Etched names. History pressing into my palms.
In the locker room afterward, the noise softened into something human. Laughter. Shouts. Someone turned music on. Coach pulled me aside and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “You earned that,” he said. “All of it.”
I sat there later, gear half off, staring at my skates on the floor. Nicole slipped in when the door opened, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around my neck. This time, there was no rink between us, no glass, no distance at all.
“We did it,” she said against my ear.
I nodded, unable to find words that felt big enough. But in the end, I didn’t need them. I lifted Nicole into my arms, twirling her around like crazy until she squealed with laughter, begging for me to stop.
And then I kissed her.