Chapter Forty-Five
I burst onto the ice, my legs burning and heart pounding, but my focus is sharper than ever. I’ve fought for this moment. Every night spent wondering if I was finished has all led to this.
Overtime.
Win, and we punch our ticket to the playoffs. Lose, and the season—the comeback, everything I’ve worked for—is over.
I take my first shift, and it’s as if I never left the ice.
A Spartan defenseman corrals the puck at the blue line, winding up for a shot. I scream down the ice and throw my shoulder into him, sending him sprawling onto the ice. The puck skitters loose. The crowd roars, a deafening, pulsating sound that shakes the Garden to its foundation.
I battle along the boards, digging my stick blade under a tangle of skates. The Spartans fight to clear it, but I brace, twist my hips, and grind the puck free, flicking it to Dewey. The play cycles. The seconds tick. Bodies crash into each other.
Dewey and I skate back to the bench, breathless.
Dewey spits onto the ice. “I’ve been seeing something, Clerky.”
I turn to him, wiping sweat from my visor.
“Every time the puck gets rimmed around, their strong-side d-man pinches hard,” Dewey says. “And their weak-side d-man sags way down below the hashmarks.”
My eyes narrow.
Dewey continues as he squirts water into his mouth. “If the puck comes around my side, I’m just gonna angle my blade and chip it high off the glass. That puck’s gonna drop right behind both defensemen. If you’re flying through the middle lane, it’s a breakaway.”
I nod slowly, my breath steadying.
We lock eyes.
This is it.
Our next shift, the Spartans storm into our zone, fast, lethal, cutting through the defense with crisp, hard passes. I dig in, tracking my man.
Then my skate catches an edge.
I go down hard, my hip slamming against the ice. I scramble to recover.
The Spartans have an opening. A forward barrels toward the net, wide open, uncontested. My breath locks in my throat. The Spartan player winds up. Slapshot. Point blank.
I watch helplessly as the puck rockets past our goalie’s glove. For a moment, the world slows.
And then—
PANG!
The puck rings off the crossbar like a gunshot just missing its target. The sound is metallic and deafening. Then the puck ricochets harmlessly into the corner.
I scramble to my feet, my heart thumping. My teammates fight for possession along the boards, bodies colliding, sticks jabbing. I try to track the play through the commotion.
“Clerky!” Dewey’s voice cuts through the noise.
Our defenseman winds up, rimming the puck hard around the boards.
I lock in, watching as the Spartans fall into their defensive pattern. The strong-side defenseman pinches down, the weak-side defenseman drifts too deep, just like Dewey said.
Dewey angles his stick as the puck zips towards him. As he makes contact with it, the puck ricochets off the glass, sailing high in the air, past both defensemen.
The puck bounces back onto the ice, hopping and skipping, no defender in sight.
I sprint through the center of the ice in pursuit of the wobbling puck as it careens past mid-ice and into the Spartans zone, uncontested.
I explode forward, my legs on fire, my skates carving deep into the ice.
I spring past the red line, desperate to gather possession.
The Spartans bench screams warnings, their voices barely audible through the rising roar of the crowd. The energy inside Madison Square Garden climbs as the arena vibrates.
The puck is just out of my reach. That’s when the Spartan goalie makes his move.
He sprints forward, abandoning his crease. A bold, reckless decision.
It’s a race for the loose puck.
I drop my shoulders, digging deeper, pushing harder. My skates cut the ice with a force that sends shavings spraying into the air. The goalie’s eyes lock onto mine, just for a split second—
Then, the goalie lunges, stacking his pads, arms outstretched, committing fully.
I have nowhere to go.
Then instinct kicks in, taking over before my mind has a chance to process my actions. My hands shoot forward, my stick blade flicking the puck just over the goalie’s sprawling reach.
At the same time, my body coils. I plant my skate, whip my torso, and spin—
The world tilts, blurs, melts into motion. For a fleeting moment, I hear Petra’s voice in my head: “Spot your turn. Control the momentum. Don’t fight it.”
I emerge from the turn balanced and steady on my skates.
The puck is waiting for me.
The net—empty.
I don’t hesitate. I rifle the puck into the open net with a booming shot. A sharp, decisive blow.
The red goal light flashes behind the net.
Game over.
For a beat, Madison Square Garden is still. The whole world is still. Then, the Garden explodes. A deafening, all-consuming roar fills the arena.
The boards rattle as the place erupts into pandemonium.
I’m still on my skates, my breath caught in my chest, staring at the net where the puck has landed—where I’ve put it.
Did that just happen?
The avalanche comes next. My teammates pour over the boards, crashing into me in a chaotic blur of bodies, sticks, and gloves.
Dewey gets to me first, tackling me onto the ice. “Clerky, you did it! You goddamn ballerina beauty!” he roars, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me like a ragdoll.
I laugh, breathless and exhilarated, still trying to process what just happened. Before I can respond, more bodies slam into us—gloves slapping my helmet, arms hauling me upright, gripping me tightly.
Rocky’s shouting something from the bench. “The ballet worked, you son of a bitch! It worked!”
The sound and the tumult—it’s all too much and not enough. I barely notice any of it.
The only thing I can really feel is the ache in my lungs, the burn in my legs, the heavy, thundering beat of my own heart. I’ve played in thousands of games, fought through dozens of injuries, clawed my way back from the brink of irrelevance.
But this? This moment? This is everything. Through the blur of arms and sticks and helmets, I lift my head.
And that’s when I see them. Up in the stands. Zoe and Lila are jumping up and down, screaming, their faces flushed and wild with joy.
And next to them is her.
Petra. Still in her Sugar Plum Fairy costume, the soft mint-green fabric catching the glow of the arena lights. She’s beaming, hands clasped over her mouth, her blue eyes shining bright and wide.
She’s laughing now, shaking her head, her blonde hair falling loose from their stage-perfect pins. I skate towards her, cupping my hands around my mouth.
“Did you see that!?” I shout over the madness.
Petra’s chest rises and falls, her breath visible in the frigid air of the rink.
Then, slowly, she mouths the two words I never thought I’d hear.
“Nice pirouette.”