Puck You

Prologue

Sebastian

Two minutes and one goal were all that stood between me and the national championship.

I’d imagined this moment to the point of obsession, but never once had it played out like this: a tied score with only one hundred and twenty seconds on the clock, triggering a wild scramble to win in the final moments of the game.

The only person I could blame was myself.

For the first time in my hockey career, I’d allowed something outside the rink to follow me onto the ice.

It was a mistake that had cost us an early lead, a mistake I couldn’t afford to make in the NCAA Frozen Four national championship.

As the clock continued to wind down, it was all I could do to remind myself that nothing else mattered in this moment, not even the woman I loved.

From the bench, I watched as our third line fumbled the puck straight into the waiting sticks of Minnesota’s defense.

My gloved fingers tightened around the edge of the metal beneath me.

This game was never going to be easy. The Bulldogs were a powerful force on the rink, a seasoned team with years of experience under their belts, but we had an edge—me—and I was going to do whatever it took to make sure our team was celebrating when the confetti rained down.

Ninety seconds left.

My pulse skyrocketed as Rowling intercepted a slapshot from the Bulldog’s right winger.

The junior had barely gained control of the puck when number six from the opposing team landed a nasty cross-check.

An uproar swept through the arena as the referee blew his whistle, and number six was sent off to wait out his time in the sin bin.

Go time.

Back in possession following the face-off, and with added advantage of outnumbering the opposing team, we moved the puck around in quick passes, keeping Minnesota at bay as we soared into enemy territory.

I concentrated my energy on finding the perfect gap: a brief opening that would cement my name and the Dallard University Ravens in history forever.

But Kent jumped the gun: his snap shot went high, bouncing off the plexiglass and tangling in the back of the net.

There was a momentary scramble before the referee blew his whistle to signal the play was dead.

I glanced at the game clock. Forty seconds was more than enough time.

Focus, Sebastian. All you need to do is focus.

All I could hear was the sound of my own rushing blood as I fell into place at the perimeter of the red circle.

I was on the puck less than a second after it dropped, backhanding it to Devon as he shot off from the board side into position behind me.

He caught it with the very tip of his stick and pushed out for a quick-release shot, one that I knew would inevitably be blocked.

I drove toward the net as the puck flew by and ricocheted off the goalie’s kneepads.

The rebound met my stick with a satisfying crack, hurtling the puck back toward the goal just as a massive form descended on me.

There was no mistaking the sickening pop that tore through my knee as I was struck from the side, or the burning agony that followed.

The ice rushed toward me as the horn blared.

A furious pain overwhelmed my senses, drowning out the roar of the crowd and the clash of celebrating bodies above me.

As the exhilarated faces of my teammates swarmed above, I knew something was terribly wrong. I’d won us the game, but at what cost?