26. Victor
Ipull the thick yellow laces on my left skate tight. The stiff leather digs into my ankle, locking my foot in place. I tie a double knot and drop my boot onto the rubber mat.
The locker room hums with a tense, electric current.
The Alpha Cup Finals. We stand one win away from the trophy.
I grab my shin guards from the metal hook inside my stall.
A week passed since the stem cell clinic.
The intense, punishing bone aches vanished four days ago, leaving my energy levels right back at their peak.
The team doctor gave me full clearance to play in the final round this morning.
Knowing Sam gets a second chance at life clears all the toxic noise out of my head. I feel grounded and focused.
I look across the crowded room.
Finn sits on his bench, adjusting the thick straps of his goalie pads.
He stares at the concrete wall, running through his mental block routine.
Lawrence tapes the blade of his composite stick with fast, precise motions.
Malcolm tightens the chin strap on his helmet, his dark eyes scanning the room with unyielding calm.
A month ago, I played hockey like a lone wolf. I used my anger to fuel my shifts on the ice. I ignored my linemates and chased the puck with blind, reckless aggression. I wanted the glory to cover up my internal failures.
Olive changed the foundation of this team.
She sits up in the VIP box right now with my Uncle Rhett and his Omega and pack mate. She wears my gold and black jersey. She waits for us to bring the Cup home. Knowing she belongs to us changes the way I breathe. It changes the way I skate. I don't fight the world anymore. I fight for my pack.
Coach walks into the center of the room. He wears a tailored suit and a grim, determined expression.
"This is it, boys." Coach looks around the room, meeting our eyes one by one. "You bled for this all season. You fought through the worst injuries. You survived the brutal travel schedule. Now you leave it all on the ice. We don't want excuses. We want a win."
We stand up from the benches. A loud, unified roar goes up from the team. We clash our sticks against the rubber floor mats.
I grab my helmet and pull it over my head. I snap the strap into place.
We march out of the locker room and head down the concrete tunnel. The roar of the crowd echoes through the thick cinderblock walls. Over twenty thousand fans scream their lungs out. The noise vibrates in my chest, a tangible force pushing us forward.
I step out of the tunnel and onto the ice.
The cold air hits my face. The bright stadium lights blind me for a fraction of a second. The deafening roar of the home crowd washes over the rink. We play on our ice tonight. We hold the home advantage.
I skate a fast lap around our defensive zone. I dig the steel blades of my skates into the frozen surface.
The opposing team skates onto the ice. The Berllow Vipers. They play a fast, punishing game. They hate us, and we hate them.
The referee blows the whistle.
I skate to the center circle. I bend my knees and lower my center of gravity. I rest the blade of my stick on the ice. The opposing center glares at me through his plastic visor. I ignore him. I keep my eyes on the referee's hand.
The puck drops.
I snap my stick forward, winning the draw. I pass the black rubber disc backward to Malcolm.
The game explodes into immediate chaos.
The first period passes in a blur of high-speed collisions and missed shots. The Vipers play a tight, suffocating defensive trap. They clog the neutral zone and force us to dump the puck into the corners. We grind against the boards, fighting for every inch of available space.
I take a vicious cross-check to the ribs. I stumble, but I keep my skates under me. The pain registers as a dull throb. I shake it off and chase the play.
Playing together for years changes the geometry of the game. I never need to look over my shoulder to know where Lawrence is. I anticipate his speed approaching the left wing. I fire a blind, backhand pass across the blue line. Lawrence catches the puck in stride and rips a fast wrist shot.
The Vipers goalie flashes his glove and makes the save.
The whistle blows.
We skate back to the bench. We breathe hard, sweat stinging our eyes.
"They block the shooting lanes." Lawrence squirts water into his mouth from a plastic bottle. "We need to force them out of position."
"I'll draw the defense." I wipe my face with a towel. "You crash the net for the rebound."
The second period turns into a grinding war of attrition. The score remains tied at zero. Neither team wants to make the first mistake. The tension in the arena builds with every blocked shot and every bone-crushing hit against the plexiglass.
Finn stands on his head in the crease. He blocks twenty shots in the second period alone. He moves with impossible agility, flashing his pads and sprawling across the ice to rob the Vipers of sure goals. He acts as an unyielding brick wall.
The Vipers take a hooking penalty midway through the period. The referee raises his arm. We get a two-minute power play.
Coach taps my shoulder. "Sterling, Davis, Walker. Get out there. Run the umbrella."
I jump over the boards. My skates hit the ice with a loud crunch. I skate to the face-off circle. The Vipers send out their best penalty killers. They plan to block shots and ice the puck to kill the clock.
I win the draw again. I pull the puck back to Malcolm at the point.
Malcolm walks the blue line. He uses his towering frame to shield the puck from a rushing forward. He fakes a slapshot and slides a smooth pass over to Lawrence on the half-wall.
The synergy kicks in. We run the power play like a flawless machine.
We pass the puck with blinding speed, forcing the Vipers defense to scramble out of position.
Years of practice pay off. I know Malcolm wants to shoot.
I skate right to the front of the net, planting my large frame in the goalie's line of sight.
I take a few slashes to the ankles from the defenders, but I refuse to move. I provide the screen.
Malcolm winds up. The crack of his composite stick echoes through the arena. He rips a vicious slapshot.
The puck sails through traffic and rings off the iron goalpost with a loud ping. The puck deflects into the corner.
A collective groan ripples through the home crowd.
I chase the loose puck into the corner. An opposing defenseman hits me from behind, driving my face into the plexiglass. The impact rattles my teeth. I drop my shoulder and shove him off, maintaining possession of the puck. I kick the rubber to my stick and feed a pass back to Lawrence.
The power play expires without a goal. The Vipers kill the penalty.
The frustration mounts, but we refuse to panic.
Knowing Olive waits for us keeps our emotions in check.
In the past, missing a prime scoring chance would send me into a blind rage.
I would slam my stick against the boards and curse at the referee.
Today, I just skate back to the bench and take a drink of water.
The calm focus remains intact. I know we will get another chance.
I look up at the VIP boxes circling the arena.
I find the glass suite holding our family.
I spot Olive. She stands near the glass, wearing my black and gold jersey.
Her dark bob frames her flushed face. Even from this immense distance, her presence grounds me.
She believes in us and trusts us to come home victorious. I refuse to let her down.
The second period ends in a scoreless tie. We retreat to the locker room to prepare for the final twenty minutes of the season.
The intermission passes in a tense, focused blur. We sit in the locker room, drinking water and catching our breath. Coach paces the rubber floor mats, barking out defensive adjustments. We nod. Twenty minutes separates us from the championship.
The warning buzzer sounds in the hallway.
I grab my stick and follow the pack out the door. We march down the concrete tunnel. The deafening roar of the arena hits my ears. We reach the box and take our seats on the wooden bench.
The referee blows his whistle to start the play.
We step off the bench and glide into our positions. The third period begins. The Berllow Vipers look desperate. They slash at our ankles and throw cheap insults across the ice. I block the noise out. My focus narrows down to the black rubber disc in the referee's hand.
The puck drops.
I win the draw. The game turns into an absolute war.
The Vipers score ten minutes into the period. A stray shot deflects off a skate and slips past Finn's blocker glove. The red light flashes. The home crowd goes dead silent. The score sits at one to zero.
We skate back to the bench. Finn skates to the corner and squirts water over his face. He looks frustrated, but he refuses to break. He skates back to the crease and taps the goalposts with his stick. He catches my eye and gives a firm, steady nod. He locks the net down. No more goals.
We have ten minutes to save our season.
I jump over the boards for my next shift. The pack synergy shifts into overdrive. We stop playing a structured game and rely on our raw instincts. Malcolm throws a vicious hit near the blue line, stealing the puck. He fires a long pass up the ice.
Lawrence catches the pass in stride. He turns on his jet speed. He blows past the Vipers defensemen and goes on a breakaway. He fakes a shot, forces the goalie to drop to the ice, and slides a backhand shot into the top corner of the net.
The arena erupts. The deafening roar shakes the thick glass. Tied game. One to one.
We celebrate with a quick collision against the boards before racing back to center ice.
The clock ticks down. Three minutes. Two minutes. The threat of sudden-death overtime looms over the rink. The exhaustion burns my lungs, but the adrenaline keeps my legs moving.
One minute remains.