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Dallas plays heavy, physical hockey. First ten minutes, I’m digging pucks out from the wall and slamming into their forwards like they insulted my mother.

“Stay wide!” I shout at Ethan as we rotate.

We strike first. James forces a turnover at the blue line, Parker picks it up and threads a slick pass to Connor flying down the wing. He dekes once, freezes the goalie, and backhands it five-hole. The place goes nuts.

But late in the first, Dallas buries a greasy one. It’s a rebound off the pad, scrambled in front, and their center taps it past Alex before we can clear the crease. The crowd boos. Coach curses. We tighten up.

We're still tied in the second period. The puck gets loose on a rebound at the other end and James snipes it top shelf. Bar down, crowd explodes.

He skates past our bench and points right at me. “That one’s for the law girl!”

The whole line erupts in laughter.

Coach is already growling. “Shut it down and reset!”

We do.

Midway through the period, though, Ethan takes a foolish penalty. Two-hander to the stick. Obvious. Loud.

He slinks into the box like a kid caught sneaking out.

James leans forward on the bench. “You play any dirtier, they’re going to name a penalty after you.”

Ethan flips his glove off dramatically. “I call it emotional forechecking.”

Mikey adds, “I call it dumb as hell.”

Ethan retorts, “Says the guy who got a delay of game for tossing a puck to a fan and missed the net.”

Mikey shrugs. “The fan ducked. That’s not on me.”

The third period rolls in with an Acer's one-goal lead. Dallas is hungry, buzzing the slot.

I take a high slapshot off the shoulder blocking a drive. It stings like hell, but I grit my teeth and skate through it.

Final two minutes, they pull their goalie.

We clear the puck deep into their zone to relieve pressure, standard play when they’ve pulled their goalie. But they regroup fast, setting up in our end with clean passes. They cycle the puck around the perimeter, forcing us to chase. My legs burn as I pivot and track, sticking to my coverage like glue.

Ten seconds. Their winger winds up at the blue line and rips a shot that’s clean, fast, and high. I step into the shooting lane, absorb it square in the shoulder with a grunt, pain lancing down my arm. The puck deflects off me and drops loose in the slot.

“Clear it!” I bark, voice ragged.

Ethan swoops in, snags the puck, and rifles it down the ice.

“Clear, clear, clear!” he yells like a war cry, grinning through the cage as he skates past the bench.

Final buzzer.

Acers win.

The arena erupts. Gloves fly. Sticks slam the ice.

I glance toward the stands again.

She’s on her feet, hands clapping, a smile stretching across her face.

And even through the glass, the noise, and the sweat, I feel it.