5. Blake #3
After a solid night’s sleep, light mobility drills, warm-ups, our morning skate, another round of stretching, a slow meal, and too many hours pacing around waiting for puck drop, here we finally are. About to do battle with the Vancouver Stormhawks.
The tunnel is tight. Dim. Feels like it’s closing in with every step we take.
My skates click against the rubber flooring, echoing louder than they should. The cold leaks in from the concrete walls, crawling up my neck and through the pads. And that smell—sharp, fresh ice, mixed with sweat, gear, and tape—wraps itself around me like a warning.
Why the hell don’t I have a good feeling about tonight?
I brush it off, roll my neck, and glance around.
Thumper cracks his own like he’s trying to shake the doubt out of it.
Bishy exhales through his mouth, sharp, like it’s the only way to stop his hands from shaking. He taps his stick once against his gloves. Then again. Rhythm. Control.
McAvoy shifts from side to side, his skates squeaking slightly, breathing through his mask like he’s meditating and about to explode all at once.
And Brody…that damn mouth guard again. Between his teeth, always chewing like it’s the only thing keeping his nerves from boiling over.
McCullum walks beside Danny, his voice low and controlled. “Focus. No distractions. We’ve got one job tonight.”
The tunnel opens ahead of us. Light spills in. Bright. Blinding. And then—
The roar. The Royal Arena is alive, and the crowd’s already on their feet.
The boards vibrate under the weight of stomping.
Massive screens overhead flash clips from our last face-off with these bastards.
Hits. Goals. Fights. The scoreboard hangs above the rink, clean for now.
Zeros staring down. Daring us to change them.
“Ladies and gentlemen… make some noise for your VANCOUVER STORMHAWKS!” The announcer's voice booms through the PA. The home crowd loses their minds.
The Stormhawks pour onto the ice, a streak of blue and silver. Their jerseys catch the light and shimmer. A storm. That’s what they want to be. They want to own this place.
I swallow hard. Loads of nerves. Not fear, but plenty of intensity. Like every atom in me knows this one’s going to go the full three rounds and then some.
The voice doesn’t pause. “And now…hailing from Las Vegas, Nevada…your LAS VEGAS ACES!”
The crowd shifts. Cheers…yeah, there are a few. But the boos? Louder. Sharper. It’s their ice. For now.
We step out, one by one, and the cold bites straight through my socks, through my skates, and straight into bone.
Light blasts across the ice in pulses. The speakers shake the air. My chest tightens.
We glide to the bench. Sticks tap against the boards in time with the building tension.
“Let’s go!” Thumper yells.
McCullum pulls us into a tight huddle. “We set the tone. First hit, first play. Let’s own this ice.”
Brody's nod is quick, clipped. “Eyes up. Stormhawks love fast puck movement. Cut them off early.”
Danny slaps my shoulder. “Mitchell, lock-in. Get in their heads.”
I nod once. No words. Just tighten the grip on my stick and look out across the rink.
They’re lining up. Vancouver’s ready.
Foster, their captain, is already staring me down. That smug posture. Like he’s already added the win to their record. I stare right back.
We skate forward.
McAvoy taps the post twice. Settles into his crease. No flinch. All fire.
Thumper is crouched and centered at the faceoff circle. Laser-focused on the puck.
The ref steps in, puck in hand. He looks at both centers. No words. Just that look.
I skate into position beside Peters.
Okay… Steady breathing. Focus.
The whistle blows.
The puck drops.
The fight begins.
Foster lunges, his body snapping forward, and he wins it clean before drawing it back to his D-man Smithy.
Stormhawks take control. Immediate. No hesitation.
Dupree, a fast little bastard, bursts up the left wing. I track him, matching stride for stride, ready to angle him off.
He doesn’t keep it.
Drops it behind him to Vanek.
Shit. I know that setup as it clicks half a second too late.
CRACK.
The sound splits the ice.
The puck screams past McAvoy’s glove and slams into the back of the net.
“brRRROOONNNK!”
The horn detonates. The scoreboard changes—0-1, Stormhawks.
We skate back. Silent, controlled, and fucking pissed.
McCullum paces behind the bench. Stone cold. “Shake it off. We hit them back. Hard.”
Danny slaps my helmet. “Get in their lanes, Mitchell. Cut off their passing game.”
No one argues. We nod. Reset.
Faceoff.
Thumper’s turn, a clean win. He flicks it to Peters. We go.
I race up the left wing, carving the ice, looking for the lane, but the Stormhawks swarm Bishy fast. He sees me and sends it across.
It’s tight.
I catch it, redirect to Brody.
Quick snapshot, goalie sprawls.
Rebound loose!
Thumper dives in—
CLANG!
The puck pings off the post, and chaos breaks loose. Skates, bodies, sticks. We fight to stuff it in.
Midway through the first, Peters rotates off. Dan Mercer jumps the boards. He’s calm, calculated, eyes scanning like radar.
Stormhawks regroup and push.
Mercer reads the play early, cuts of Vanek’s lane, and forces a dump-in.
We recover.
Brody circles back, feeds it to Mercer. He delays, draws in the fore-checker, then threads a pass up the wall.
I grab it, pivot, and drive.
Stormhawks press, but Mercer’s positioning holds, he’s not flashy, but he’s airtight.
Two minutes later, Peters returns. Mercer taps gloves and drops back to the bench.
Peters wastes no time—steps up, intercepts a stretch pass, and rifles it cross-ice to Brody.
We surge again.
The crowd gasps. Then groans. No goal, and it’s the end of the first. Down 0-1.
We come back out for the second with a different energy and explode out of the gate, fore-checking like we’ve got teeth.
Every hit has more weight. Every shift is a war.
Stormhawks reel, until we overcommit.
Turnover.
Foster breaks.
I take off, cut across, and force him wide.
He spins. Delivers it right into Smithy’s wheelhouse.
That damn sniper again. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t need to.
CRACK.
“brRRROOONNNK!” 0-2.
“COME ON!” I slam my stick against the boards. My heart is thumping like it wants to break out of my ribs.
Vancouver’s crowd is relentless.
McCullum pulls us in, his voice low and dark. “Okay. We are NOT rolling over. We get physical. NOW!”
Next shift, Bishy rotates off. Vasko jumps in.
He’s got fire in his eyes, skates like he’s chasing ghosts.
We bring heat.
Checks harder. Sticks sharper. Every puck battle feels like a fistfight.
Vasko crashes the boards, digs out a loose puck, and fires a blind backhand into the slot—Thumper nearly buries it.
Stormhawks scramble.
Then Foster goes wide on me.
I move in. Shoulder to ribs.
The hit lands like a shot and he crashes into the boards. His stick flies.
Whistle.
Ref’s arm is up.
Penalty.
Stormhawks fans erupt, pounding on the glass as I skate toward the box. I slam the door behind me, my jaw locked and my breathing sharp.
The clock reads 1:57 on the kill.
Stormhawks set up.
Their center, Smithy, is already loading up.
He fires.
McAvoy snatches it mid-air. Glove save. No rebound. The crowd groans.
I lean forward and grip the top of the boards, locked in on the play. Every second crawls, and we're dialed in.
Shots blocked. Passing lanes shut. We bend, don’t break.
Bishy returns. Vasko taps out.
Finally, the ref points. I’m free.
I explode out, skating hard. Peters has the puck and feeds it up to me.
We’re alive again.
Then Bishy sees the gap.
He goes wide, loads up, and lets it fly.
“brRRROOONNNK!” Goal. 1-2.
Our bench erupts. Gloves slap and sticks hit pads. Brody meets me with a grin and slaps my gloves as we turn.
The momentum is ours now.
And then the whistle blows. It’s the end of the second.
Back in the locker room, we’re soaked in sweat and steam. The air’s thick with frustration and adrenaline.
McCullum storms in. “This may be their ice. Their home. Their crowd. But it’s OUR GAME! We hit first, we strike fast.”
Danny’s already walking the room, tapping each of us. “We’re one play away. Every move counts.”
McAvoy throws a towel down. “We need tighter coverage on Smithy. He’s finding too much space.”
I stretch my legs out, my muscles twitching. “Damn it! We've got the momentum. Come on, guys, let’s capitalize on it. McCullum is right. It’s their home, so they’ve got more to lose. Makes them more nervous.”
Thumper chomps on an energy bar, nodding. “Let’s get this done.”
No wasted time.
Back down the tunnel. Third period. Do or die.
The ref drops the puck, and the Stormhawks come fast, but we don’t move. Every line match is a collision. Puck possession flips every few seconds. It’s chaos.
Then their winger swipes a shot from the high slot.
I lunge—
CRACK!
I get my stick down just in time. Deflection sends it harmlessly wide.
“Hell yeah, Mitchell!” Brody yells from somewhere behind.
But I have no time to respond as Thumper fires a wrister from the top of the circle—wide.
He circles back, panting hard, shoulders sagging.
McIntosh signals.
Thumper skates toward the bench, jaw clenched, sweat dripping.
“Son of a bitch,” he growls, voice raw. “I’m not dead, just fucking smoked.”
He slams his stick against the boards as he hops off.
Davis jumps on—second center.
He’s leaner, cooler, eyes locked in like he’s playing chess at warp speed.
Next shift, Davis wins the draw clean.
Feeds it back to Peters, who swings it to Mercer, rotated in again for a defensive matchup.
We cycle.
Davis floats into the slot, ghosting past their D.
Brody threads it.
Davis tips it.
CLANG!
Off the crossbar.
Crowd groans.
But we’re pressing.
Davis digs deep in the corner, spins off a check, and sends it back to me.
I load up
Blocked.
Stormhawks scramble, but Davis is already back, cutting off the breakout.
Then Foster rams into me near the boards. Hard.
I snap around, fists ready.