18. Buzz #2
“He held you because you beat him outside,” I said. “Do it again.”
On the power play, Eden Prairie overloaded toward me because they thought I wanted the shot. Usually, they would be right. I loved the shot. I loved when a goalie knew I was going to release it and still could not stop it.
But the lane through the seam opened exactly where Coach said it would if I waited half a second longer than instinct wanted me to.
So I waited. Then I snapped the puck through to Mase at the back door.
Tie game.
Popcorn flew over the glass in a yellow-and-white storm.
The refs shouted at absolutely no one who was listening.
The band dragged the student section through the fight song while a line of freshmen with shovels looked like they were reconsidering every life choice that had led them to high school hockey.
Mase crashed into me with both arms.
“That was disgusting,” he yelled.
The guys mobbed us near the boards while the crowd kept roaring.
I looked up to see Lucy standing. The blanket had fallen off her lap. Naomi was yelling something beside her. Arlo had both hands in the air. Mom was laughing. Grandma Ruth was beaming and clapping from her seat. Dad was standing even though it was only the first period.
And Thane was being typical Thane.
He was watching me. Not like a brother. Like a player.
I hated how good that felt. I hated it almost as much as I wanted more.
The rest of the game did not turn simple after that.
We went up 2–1 in the second when I fed Simon through traffic and he finally stopped thinking long enough to score. For nine whole minutes, the ice felt like it belonged to me again.
Then I got greedy. Instead of chipping the puck deep with support behind me, I tried to cut inside at the blue line because I could see the move in my head and my hands believed they could make it real.
Carlson stripped me clean and tied the game easily.
Coach sat me for the next two shifts.
Shame made my skin too tight beneath my gear. Anger, I could use. Nerves, I could skate through. But shame sat in the bottom of my stomach and whispered that everyone had finally seen the thing people worried about when they talked about me.
I stared at the ice, breathing hard through my nose, trying not to look at the scouts.
I looked at Lucy instead. She was still standing. Her eyes were fixed on our bench, and there was no disappointment in her face.
Lucy did not love me because I was good at hockey.
She liked that I was. She understood it better than she admitted. But that was not why.
She loved me when I failed biology quizzes. When I said the wrong thing. When I showed up ten minutes late with coffee I had remembered she liked because remembering the coffee felt more important than being on time. She loved the parts of me that did not make sense in a stat column.
Eden Prairie scored once more before the second ended, and we went into the third down 3–2.
The locker room during intermission was the quietest I had ever heard it. No one joked. No one threw tape. No one complained about the refs.
Coach let the silence sit long enough for all of us to feel it.
Then he said, “This is what you wanted.” Coach stood in the middle of the room, one hand braced against the whiteboard, tie loosened at his throat.
“You wanted the big game. You wanted the crowd. You wanted the section final. You wanted to prove Northbend belonged here with teams like Eden Prairie.”
His eyes moved across the room and stopped on me. “Now you are here,” he said. “And they are not giving it to you. Good. Nobody worth beating does.”
He pointed at the board. “Third period, we stop chasing. We win walls. We finish checks. We make the first pass. We get pucks through traffic.”
The third period was ugly.
Prairie clogged the neutral zone and forced every breakout into pressure. Every whistle came with pushing, jawing, gloves pressed against cages.
Then, halfway through the third, Simon took a tripping penalty. Down one. Ten minutes left. Penalty kill.
I hopped over the boards.
Eden Prairie set up quickly, but for the first time all night, I stopped watching the puck like it owed me something.
I watched Carlson. I watched his hips. His stick. The way he drifted toward the soft spot behind our defenseman near the backdoor lane.
The pass was coming.
I jumped the lane.
The puck hit my blade clean.
For one perfect moment, there was nothing in front of me but ice. Then I was gone.
Their point man chased. Carlson chased. Someone yelled from their bench. My lungs opened, legs burning, skates biting hard enough to throw ice behind me.
The goalie came out too far.
I sold a shot high glove, pulled the puck across my body, and slipped it between his pads as he dropped.
The puck crossed the line.
Tie game.
North Metro Arena lost its mind.
I hit the boards behind the net and turned as the sound crashed over me. Mase was first, slamming into me so hard my helmet knocked sideways. Two more guys followed. Someone grabbed the back of my jersey. Someone was screaming directly into my ear.
The Northbend student section threw popcorn like confetti.
The refs yelled.
I looked over the pile of helmets and gloves toward our seats.
Lucy’s hands were over her mouth.
Naomi was shaking her by both shoulders.
Grandma Ruth was yelling at the ice crew.
Mom looked like she might cry.
Kendrick had both arms raised.
Grandpa Hal had abandoned his pencil.
Dad stood completely still, one hand gripping the railing in front of him.
Thane was on his feet. Just standing there in his black Chicago jacket, staring at me like something had finally become impossible to deny.
I felt ten feet tall.
I felt six years old.
I felt like I might throw up.
Regulation ended tied 3–3.
Early in overtime, when I finally jumped over the boards, Eden Prairie had the puck in our zone. Carlson carried it along the right wall, looking for the trailer. Earlier in the game, I would have chased him because chasing felt like control.
This time, I waited.
He tried to delay. Tried to pull our defenseman toward him. Tried to open the pass across.
I cut underneath before he released it. My stick got there first. The puck skipped loose.
For half a second, Carlson and I both reached. I chipped it past him and accelerated. Mase took off on my left. Simon trailed.
Their defense backed in, careful, trying not to give me the middle. The crowd rose in pieces around us. I could hear the pitch changing as people realized who had the puck.
My lungs burned.
Mase yelled for it. I glanced at him. The defenseman bit.
I made the pass fake as hard as I could without letting the puck leave my blade. The goalie shifted with it. The weak-side defenseman turned his hips toward Mase.
The lane opened. I pulled the puck inside, dragged it around the defenseman’s stick, and shot through the screen before the goalie could reset.
I knew before the light went on. For one full second, the entire world stopped.
Then the building came apart.
The horn blasted.
Mase hit me first, then Simon, then the rest of the bench poured over the boards and buried me against the glass. I could not breathe. I could not see. Someone’s elbow was in my ribs, somebody had a fistful of my jersey, and I was laughing so hard I almost choked on my mouthguard.
Northbend was going to state.
I tried to stand, but the guys shoved me down again, a pile of navy and white and screaming teenage boys who smelled like sweat and metal and the best night of our lives.
When I finally got my head up, I looked for her.
She was standing in the middle of my family with Ruth’s blanket twisted around her legs and both hands pressed over her mouth. Naomi was screaming beside her. Arlo had turned fully around and was yelling at Lucy like she had scored the goal herself.
Lucy’s eyes found mine through the glass and the bodies and the chaos. I winked. One simple moment stolen as chaos erupted around us.
The next half hour did not feel real. Handshake line. Section championship plaque. More popcorn cleanup. Coach trying to organize us while everybody acted like organization was a theory invented by people who had not just won in overtime.
I wanted to get to Lucy. Instead, Coach caught me by the elbow as I came off the ice. “Media first. Then stay close.”
I blinked. “Stay close for what?”
His expression shifted. “People want to speak with you.”
He moved me toward the media platform near the tunnel.
A local reporter from Channel Nine stood with a microphone and a camera pointed at us.
I had done interviews before. Nothing huge.
Local paper. School features. The kind where adults asked what it meant to be a leader and I tried not to say something that would make Coach ban me from speaking in public.
My jersey was still damp, my hair plastered to my forehead, my hands shaky inside my gloves.
“Ty Burns, overtime hero,” she said, turning toward the camera. “Four-point night, shorthanded tying goal, overtime winner, and Northbend is heading to state. Ty, what was going through your mind on that final rush?”
I glanced past the reporter. Lucy stood with my family near the railing, scarf still wrapped around her neck, eyes bright. She looked proud in a way that made standing under the lights feel easier. I faced the camera. “Honestly, I was just trying not to mess it up,” I said.
The reporter laughed.
“We had numbers,” I continued. “Mase was yelling like he always does when he wants the puck, so that part was not new.”
Behind the reporter, Mase shouted, “Uncalled for!”
I grinned despite myself. “Their D bit for half a second, and that was enough. But that play starts in our end. Coach has been on me all year about not cheating offense, so I’m sure he’ll be thrilled I listened once.”
The reporter smiled wider. “You had an early turnover that led to Eden Prairie’s first goal. How did you reset after that?”
“My teammates,” I offered, and meant it. “Mase told me it was stupid, which was helpful in a very Mason way.”